Temple-time

Today was Raksha Bandhan, one of the (many) Hindu festivals held each year. Hindus celebrate the day by attending an early morning Puja (worship), wearing a protective band around their wrists and feasting on special (tasty!) beans. I joined in with the IRC staff in Surkhet.

What follows are raw, immediate impressions from the morning:

Sounds:

Bells – simultaneous, offbeat.

Kids laughing, babies crying, Nepalis talking. Nepali public voices are more hushed than Americans. A sea of hushes. Murmur murmur, pray pray, talk talk.

Next to me, Keshav narrates the event: “Now the priest will give you a band to protect you.” Keshav, Yamuna, Dev ask periodically, “Rosie, what do you think of our religion? Are you having fun?”

Smells:

Incense. Close to the temples, strong enough to make my eyes water, my nose twitch. Women hold the burning sticks, wave them around the temple then leave it for the gods before they leave.

Toilet smells ring circumference of temples. Raw human waste, undiluted, not covered up by sprays or air fresheners or flushing.

A few steps outside the complex, fried samosas, roti, hot oil with garlic, onions. Calories to feed the empty bellies leaving the temple. (Nepali tradition to worship on an empty stomach.)

Sights:

A layer of small shops lines the dirt road leading to the temple. Rice paddies sit, soggy, behind the shops. Cows, goats and scrawny dogs mull in road. No cars.

Streams of people move in both directions – young children bounce and chase each other with reeds; grey-haired men in colorful fabric walk with stiff gaits, steady themselves on a nearby shoulder; the generations in between amble, chat, support elders, nag. The foreheads of people coming towards have red dots in the center - tikkas. Made of yogurt, rice and red dye, tikkas symbolize prosperity; you mustn't leave the temple without one.

The scene reminds me of driving down a freeway at night – the red backlights in one line of cars, the white headlights in the other. On this Saturday, its red tikkas in one direction. Blank foreheads in another.

Dozens of small tables line the entrance to the temples. Beads, glitter sashes, incense and coconut sit on display, items for the Gods. I see a hunched over women hand precious rupees to the vendor in exchange for some coconut and incense.

Through the gate, a mass of people prevents smooth walking. Stop-go, stop-go. The first temple we come to is the size of a large doghouse. A flock of people hover by the entrance, incense smoke billows out. I stay outside the flock, watching.

Inside the temple is how I imagine the inside of a womb– tight, steamy, red, hot. A wooden statue of a God at the center(I forget which one – there are so many) and at its feet a pile of offerings –beads, photos, incense, candles, dripping and crumpling on each other.

The other two temples (there are three) are similar – the crowds hovering outside, people (mostly women) nudging inside, the womb-like room, the incense, the pile of offerings.

Between temples people mingle – neighbors exchange “namastes,” kids chase each other around trees, families take pictures.

I remove my shoes and enter the main temple. (Heavy, cumbersome hiking boots, my shoes look funny and oversized next to all the sandals). I join the crowd that buzzes around a statue of a four-armed God. Yamuna, who I observe nudging and elbowing to get closer, instructs me to bow my head, say a simple prayer in my head. I bow, then exit the temple to join the ‘boys,’ whose worship is much more ‘in-and-out.’

Keshav places a tikka on my forehead, saying, “May all the gods protect you.” We hover outside while Yamuna continues to buzz, place her offerings, touch the statue, murmur, nudge.

After we visit the big temple, we take a slough of photographs. I’m conscious of the tikka on my forehead but I don’t feel weird about it. As Keshav says, “Aren’t we Hindus flexible? We are happy to have a Christian worship with us.” I explain I’m not a Christian but he’s right, I feel welcome and comfortable at the event – no stares, jeers. Just a few smiles, hellos, namastes.

Tummies grumbling, we plop ourselves at the first samosa stand cum restaurant on the road. We enjoy an elaborate meal of fried roti, sweet tea, beans.

As we order, I see the grimy clock behind the counter – 8:55 am. It’s before I’d normally be awake on a Saturday and my day already feels complete.

New Prime Minister

"Breaking news" – Maoist leader Prachanda elected Prime Minister of Nepal.

This is on all the news wires (by all I mean BBC and the local Nepali TV stations).

As I get key from hotel lobby, four people cluster around the TV, watching the live coverage of Prachanda delivering his acceptance speech. I ask, “Is this good news or bad news?”

“Very good news,” says the man who’s behind the desk. I want to ask more, but there's not much more we can say between my Nepali and his English. (Except maybe "where's the toilet?") 30 years old, baby in his lap (his daughter, Elena), middle class for Surkhet standards. Is he the typical Maoist supporter? Did most middle and lower class people in Surkhet vote for the Maoists in April? It seems like it.

What I don’t understand is how Prachanda – the man who led the Maoist insurgency that caused the 10-year civil war where 13,000 people lost their lives – can be so popular. How people who live in towns whose infrastructure was destroyed by Prachanda’s army, who’s women were raped by his soldiers and who’s children were taken for “the cause” – often by force – support this man.

Here in Surkhet I have a burning desire to ask people more about their allegiance to him. Just one conversation would teach me more than any internet search or UN report or International Crisis Group analysis.

I want to loiter where people are watching his speech – in a hotel lobby or outside of a shop – and casually strike up conversation. I’d ask them if they’re happy, if they think his election is good for Nepal.

But for now I’m limited to asking, “Tapaiko naam ke ho?” (What is your name?) and “Tapailai san chai chaa?” (How are you?) and “Charpi kaha cha?” (Where is the toilet?) Arg. More motivation to learn Nepali.

"CP stands for Change of Plans."

That's what Amar, Child Protection Manager, said when we learned the flight to Jumla yesterday was cancelled. (CP usually stands for "Child Protection.")

Instead of Jumla, I've come to Surkhet. Not as remote or mountainy, but still very beatiful, and more rural than anything I'd seen so far. Didn't require a flight. Just a 3 hour drive.

Today visited two different IRC-supported schools and met two children (former maoist soldiers) who IRC has provided goats and sewing training.

Just had my 4th tea of the day here (can't get by in rural Nepal without accepting the tea - hot, milky, and sweeter than candy). Nevertheless exhausted. Ma araam garnchu. I will rest.

Mountain-maa janchu

"In the mountains I go."

It feels like the night before Christmas: I'm excited, nerved up.

Tomorrow I leave for Jumla, a remote district in Nepal's mountain-ey midwest. I'll be there for 6 days to monitor and support IRC's child protection program in the district.

My bag is packed. It includes:

• hiking boots
• bedsheets
• diarrhea medicine (!!)
• granola bars
• satellite phone
• iodine tablets
• warm jacket
• rain pants

Shoot, office closing down. Time to go! I expect I'll have stories to share next week, when I return.

Here are some pictures from Jumla. Peter Biro, a communications officer for IRC, took them this spring.

Stupa night

Just came back from a colorful night. I'm afraid I won't do it justice now - I feel both sleepy and glass-of-wine-silly. But I'll try to paint a few pictures.

The setting: Bodhnath Stupa, the largest stupa in Kathmandu. I remember seeing it weeks ago as I flew into the city – an immense, white UFO shape with a pointed gold top and prayer flags sprawling out from the tip to the base. It is, without question, the most prominent structure in the valley.

A blurry view from the air

Today is a Buddhist Holy day and thousands have flocked to the stupa to worship, celebrate. Prayers are said to be 10,000 times more potent today. (Or is it 100,000?).

Birbal, our driver, drops Jenny, Denise and I at the main entrance. As I exit the car, I collide with a short Tibetan woman wearing a maroon robe. Her head is shaved. The first of many Lamas I'm to see - and bump into - tonight.

We walk through a narrow alley lined by ancient, European-looking apartments (colorful shutters, well-maintained). The ground floors host shops that sell cloth mandalas and Tibetan prayer flags. Every shop burns a different incense. My nose twitches.

The stupa is at the end of the alleyway. Several football fields wide and a few flagpoles tall, the white sphere appears to have its own gravitational pull. At the top, a set of large painted eyes stare down, directly at me.

My first stupa-picture of the night

I take out my camera and start taking pictures. A gut reaction. Denise and Jenny do the same. After a few pictures we look at each other, Jenny asks what’s on all of our minds: 'Is this appropriate?' We aren’t sure (so much sacred-ness), but find out later that pictures are fine.

Hundreds (maybe thousands) of people are circulating the stupa. Most of them are holding white candles and are chanting sounds that are low, deep. Half wear maroon robes and have shaved heads. A few white (sunburned) tourists dot the crowd – cameras around neck, fanny packs at waist. But the vast majority are Tibetan and Nepali. A lot of “Free Tibet” t-shirts.

I see lamas wearing bright plastic Croc shoes under their maroon robes; old women dressed in traditional scarves talking on cell phones; thousand year-plus-old stupa next to coffee shops advertising "lattes" and "fast internet."

Monk waiting in internet cafe

Jenny and I circle the stupa while Denise waits at the entrance for the woman we’re to meet. Chanting, candles, robes all around us. We walk in a dazed wonder, clockwise, around the structure. It reminds me of the Dartmouth homecoming bonfire – the mass of people and energy, circulating, worshiping this central relic.

We’ve come to meet Maura Moyhihan, a friend of the IRC’s president who is visiting Kathmandu for the week. I’m excited to meet her – she’s supposed to be “eccentric” and “feisty.” And I’d read about her dad, Sen. Daniel Patrick Moynihan, in American history classes.

After Jenny and I do a loop, we wait for Maura by the entrance with Denise. Minutes later, a middle aged woman bounces up to us, smiling. She looks like an aging teenager - she is thin and wears flair jeans, a bright blue shirt and dangly earrings; she also has wrinkles and thinning hair.

She hugs each of us, introduces us to the Tibetan man with her, takes Denise by the hand and walks swiftly with the crowd, motioning for us to follow. Unsure where we are going, Jenny and I tag along, make small talk with the Tibetan man along the way.

I'm getting sleepy so must stop here. But in a nutshell, she brought us to visit an old, tantric Lama – one of the last of his generation still alive. He was performing a ceremony near the stupa. We entered his temple, bowed to him, sat with his followers on red cushions. Lots of chanting, prostrating, colorful hats, drum beating. After, we had dinner with Maura and a handful of her Tibetan friends. I sat next to a grey-haired Tibetan man who came to Nepal when he was 9. The year was 1959, the same year China invaded Tibet and the Dalai Lama fled for India. He left with his two older brothers and father in a group of about 300 others from his village. Luckily he knew how to ride a horse. Six months and many mountain passes later, they reached Nepal. Many, including his father, died along the way from disease, malnutrition, and occasional fights with Chinese troops.

The Tibetan Drama has always been distant, academic to me. Tonight at the stupa it came alive.

Denise (my boss), Jenny (my roommate) and Maura (lady we were meeting). This picture is characteristic of Maura - her hands were flail-ey and expressive most of the night.

Good old Birbal!

Momos and terraces

Buff momos, up close and personal. Not very photogenic. But sure are tasty. (I've left out the cross-section shot. Looked even more like cat food.)

View from a rooftop café overlooking Patan's Durbar Square. (Patan is where I live, a sub-city of Kathmandu.) A 10-15 minute walk from my house, this square is the center (spiritually, physically, everything else-ally) of Patan. I spent most of Sunday afternoon here - doing work, writing letters, taking in the smells (momos), sounds (crying baby, occasional rooster crow, tourists bargaining) and feels (breeze, caffeine buzz). It was a pinch-myself kind of afternoon. (I live here I kept telling myself, with a smile.)

Another rooftop shot.

Temple meets Macbook.

THIS WEEKEND I LEARNED OUR GUESTHOUSE HAS A TERRACE! I had no idea. To make up for lost terrace-time, I spent most of Saturday afternoon up there. This is the view to the south.

To the west.

To the north.

Office pictures installment 1

Here are some pictures from where I work. More on the way - still missing some key characters!

This is the IRC building, where I live from ~ 9:10 to 6:30 most Monday through Fridays. My office is on the third floor.

Neelima is the first person I see when I walk in. “Good morning Rosie” she says, while she’s stuffing an envelope or un-jamming the printer or dialing a phone number. She is efficient and always busy.

25 years old, Neelima recently finished 3 years of college in Bangalor, India. One year during college, she worked at a phone bank selling credit cards to Americans. They taught her how to speak with an American accent and told her to never talk about the weather. If asked, she was to say she was in Texas.

Neelima is becoming a good friend. Unfortunately though, she lives an hour and a half from the office/my house. Tricky. We're planning a sleepover next week so there’s time to do something fun after work.

This is my roommate Jenny, from the UK. Jenny is the IRC’s "Child Protection Coordinator." In a typical week, she’ll have three donor reports to write, a teacher-training curriculum to design, a government coordination meeting to attend, and 5 or 6 other things to do. She easily works 75 hours each week and still comes home smiling.

At work we help each other edit tough emails and at home we cook pasta together and make fun of each other’s accents. This week she is on vacation visiting her Fiance in Chicago. She comes back today – I’m excited.

This is my other roommate, Tienle, from China. She was a journalist for many years, but is currently doing a Master’s in New York in International Relations. She’s in Kathmandu for the summer as an “Information Intern.”

I learn alot from Tienle. She answers my (many) questions - about Tibet and Mao and Chinese dumplings - with patience and clarity.

At home, Tienle is a bit more private than Jenny and I – she spends a lot of time behind her computer and in front of the TV (often both at the same time). And she’s less vocal about her frustrations, fears, excitements. But she definitely joins in on communal house dinners, outings and movie-nights.

I'm not good at sitting at desks. Instead I like to lie on my back (pictured), lie on my stomach or sit cross-legged on the floor. Thank goodness for laptops and wall-to-wall carpeting.

This is the view from my window. Day-dream friendly.

This is the view from the 3rd floor balcony. (On clear days the mountains are drool-worthy.)

The office vehicle. It needs a name - something cute, small.

I don't have any more pictures from the office. But what follows are pictures of office-people at a going away party for Christina, our former Country Director.

Christina has been IRC's Country Director Nepal for a year and a half. Yesterday she moved to Australia with her husband and 2 1/2 year old son. (Her husband is Australian and was offered a job there.) She seems sad to leave Nepal. But family is important.

Pictured above is Christina giving a goodbye speech at the party. She said goodbye and welcomed the new Country Director, Denise...

This is Denise! Denise arrived a week and a half ago. Before that, she worked in the Democratic Republic of the Congo for a year. She's lived in more countries than I've been to (including Rwanda, Liberia, Jordan, Malawi and a bunch of others.) I like her ALOT. She confessed to having a dance party by herself the other night and sometimes has lipstick on her teeth. When I tell her about the lipstick, she laughs and thanks me.

This is Deepak, the Deputy Director. I wrote about him in an earlier post.

This is Reese, Christina's son (tickle-friendly), and Mira, the office cook. Mira is always smiling. She has become my unofficial Nepali instructor. Every day she gives me one food-related word to learn. I repeat it to hear ad nauseum until it sinks in. Last week she taught me the words: tarkari (mixed vegetables), alloo (potatoes), kankro (cucumber), gorbera (tomato) and bhat (rice).

I hope to post pictures of the rest of the people I work with - Rita, Shivani, Sanjay, Bagwan and Birball - in the coming days/weeks.