How Do You Like Them Apples?

So it's been a while.

Let's start from the beginning. 

It was almost a month ago now when I boarded an extremely small plane in Pokhara bound for Jomsom, a town in the Mustang region of Nepali Himalayas. I had never been more anxious about a flight in my life. Although the estimated flight time was all of twenty minutes, the idea of flying in an aircraft that seated less than twenty people through the world's deepest gorge was less than comforting. But as soon as we reached cruising altitude, I quickly realized that the flight was, in reality, the greatest amusement park ride ever. Below us, the Kali Gandaki River; beside and above us, some of the world's highest peaks. We flew between the Dhaulagiri and the Annapurna ranges of the Himalayas. I had the fortune of scoring a seat just behind the pilots (no, there was no door separating them from us), and thus had the opportunity to watch their every move (helped to quell the nerves). I was actually disappointed when we began our descent into Jomsom; I didn't want it to end. 

But it did. We survived. And found ourselves in a completely different world. Jomsom, and the Mustang Region, is located north of the Himalayas in what is known as the "rainshadow" of the mountains. So unlike the lush and green landscape we left behind in Pokhara, Jomsom felt like a frozen desert. Every afternoon, the winds pick up (flights to and from Jomsom are only available in the morning due to the winds). As the winds began to pick up, we strapped on our backpacks and headed south. 

After a night in a small town called Marpha, we trekked again to Tukuche, the small village in which we would be staying with families for a week. That section of Mustang, the southern part - very much in the heart of the valley between the mountains, is known for apples. That's right - dried apples, apple pie, apple jam, apple cider, and of course, apple brandy. Walking amongst the rows and rows of apple trees, and through the towns that seem to sell only apple products, it seems as though the fruit must have grown in the area for centuries. It turns out, however, that apple trees were only introduced about forty years ago. We had the great privilege of meeting the man responsible this, the Johnny Appleseed of the Himalayas if you will, while staying in Tukuche. He was quite the character and was clearly very proud of his accomplishments in life. 

We had just enough time to test out the apple pie before our village homestay families came to collect us. Most villagers in Tukuche are Thakali, an indigenous group of Nepal. While most of the younger generation speaks Nepali, Thakalis have their own language and very distinct culture. SIT always had a "week-long village homestay component" of the semester, but this was the first time in this specific town. Although our families had never had American students living in their homes, they were not unexposed to Westerners. Tukuche is located on the very popular Annapurna Circuit Trek. Everyday during the peak seasons, dozens of Westerners pass through Tukuche. There were half a dozen guesthouses, and it was clear that many people in Tukuche rely on tourism for their livelihoods.

While I had been nervous about meeting my Tukuche family, they turned out to be so much better than I could have expected. A father (the picture-perfect Thakali man), a mother, two older sisters at home - one with a baby (the other, the oldest, lives in Kathmandu), and one older brother - I quickly became the nani (a kinship term for the youngest girl) of the family. My family had a typical Thakali home, constructed of stone, with a central courtyard, and a functioning rooftop. We had large fields located a short walk away, and a herd of mountain goats that spent the night in a stable located directly below my bedroom. Every morning, after stepping out my bedroom door and looking up to see the world's fifth highest mountain, I was immediately given, or rather forced, a cup of nun chiya, Thakali salt tea, by my mother. An acquired taste, I don't think I stayed long enough to truly grow to appreciate it. It was a warm, buttery, salty concoction, to which you add flour, making it a soupy consistency. Let's just say that I stuck to one cup a day. But it was cold in Tukuche, and the warm liquid felt good on those frigid mornings.

While husking corn on our roof with my didi one afternoon, I overheard a British trekker say to his wife as they passed by on the road that runs through the center of town, "It's like National Geographic here; We're seeing life like it was 400 years ago." For a moment, I wanted to lean over the edge of the roof and say "Excuse me sir, but why don't you step into our home and sit with my host father as he watches Hindi shows on our satellite TV. While your at it, I'm sure my sister would let you borrow her cellphone.  You should know that she and her husband had a love marriage, not the traditional marriage-by-capture that was typical for Thakalis until about thirty years ago. And before you step onto that bus that will bypass the next stretch of the route, know that the road on which you'll travel is only four years old. Before then, there was no vehicular traffic in Tukuche. That apple you're eating - the people of this town have only been growing those for less than half a century. And inside that quaint village school, the students all have computers thanks to the One Laptop One Child program, and are surfing the internet on wifi as we speak." But I didn't. I refrained. For someone just passing through a town like Tukuche, it's easy to believe that you're passing through an area untouched by modernity. But if you linger just a little while, and ask just a few questions, you'll soon realize that Tukuche is yet another small town, like many other small towns - like Deer Isle in a lot of ways, that is constantly in flux between the traditional and the modern, between the way things were and the way things are becoming. It soon becomes clear that not even a tiny Himalayan village is totally isolated from the modern world. But I let that British trekker believe that he was seeing a town functioning the way it had for centuries, because that's the way he wanted to see it. Ignorance is bliss in a lot of ways. But I think, as travelers in this world, we should strive to see the places through which we pass as they truly are - not as how we want them to be. It just takes a little more effort.

Anyway. After a wonderful week in Tukuche, we left for the next leg of our journey, our bags a little heavier with bushels of apples from our homestay families. We headed first to Muktinath, a religious pilgrimage site, and then south to Tatopani. On Halloween morning, we woke early to begin our first long day of serious trekking - a little "trek or treat" action in the Himalayas. With our bags on our backs, we began the eight-hour trek, all uphill, towards Gorepani. When I say "all uphill," I really mean it. It was entirely uphill. And it really took about eight hours. And most of it was climbing up poorly constructed stone steps. I swear, it was like being on a stair-master at the gym. For eight hours. And not being able to get off of it. It would have been one thing if this were the last leg of our three-week long Annapurna Circuit trek. But we had all just spent a week in Tukuche, eating daal bhaat three times a day and daily servings of apple crumble, and had not been exercising all that much in Kathmandu either. So it would be a bit of an understatement to say we were not in shape. But we did make it to Gorepani, in several shifts. It was such a rewarding feeling to arrive in the village; it all felt worth it.

A few of us decided to set our alarms for 4:30am the next morning to make the trek up to Poon Hill to watch the sunrise with beautiful views of the Himalayas. But as we began our ascent, on those same stone steps, I think all of us were questioning our sanity for voluntarily subjecting our bodies to climbing again, at such an early hour, before another day of trekking. But the chance to see one of the most spectacular sunrises in the world made us all realize we had made the right choice getting out of bed that morning.

After getting a quick breakfast, we headed out on the trail. After climbing for eight hours the day before, we had to climb all the way down. As someone with bad knees, this proved to be more challenging, and painful, than the day before - a concept I had not believed to be possible. Needless to say, it was not an easy feat. But it was beautiful scenery, which made it a little more pleasant. We had made our way back into the lush, green, jungly area on the other side of the mountains at this point. Alongside the trail were beautiful waterfalls and incredible, massive trees. It was stunning. And painful.

But we made it back to Pokhara, of course. And although we were all quite sore the following morning (and for a few days afterwards), we were all in relatively good spirits as we boarded a bus back to Kathmandu, ready for our final week with our host families and final exams before starting our month-long independent study projects (ISP). We're now a week into ISP month. I'll write more soon - I promise. 

Back in the 'du

I'm back in Kathmandu after two beautiful weeks in the Mustang region of the Himalayas. After getting back earlier this week I've been busy with exams and getting ready for beginning my month-long independent study project and thus have been unable to write. I'll get around to it soon. Here are some photos to tide you over in the meantime:

Kathmandu's Most Endangered Species

It's festival time again in Nepal, which means a time of animal sacrifice and, of course, the eating of meat. The animal of choice for both activities? The goat. Every morning for the past week and a half I have left my house and witnessed the butchering of multiple goats on the ten-minute walk to my bus stop. They're everywhere. Dead goats. Live goats. But when you see the few living ones you know it's just a matter of days before it's their turn. Today is one of the final days of the festival and I've haven't seen any living goats yet. I swear, any goat that had been living in Kathmandu before the start of this festival is no longer alive. Or has just a day or two left at this point.

There are three different Nepali words for goat. Bakraa, the femal goat. Khasi, the male castrated goat. Bokaa, the pure male goat - desired for sacrificial practices.

The name of this festival is Dasain, the most important in the Nepali calender. Depending on who you talk to, it lasts between ten to fifteen days. Think of the excitement level in the US during the month of December and then multiply it by ten or so and you'll only begin to get a sense of the momentousness of Dasain. The first few days are filled with pujaa (prayer/worship) and shopping. This is the time of year when everyone gets fitted for new saris or kurtaas or suits. Children get new clothes and toys. And then everyone wears their new duds for the remainder of the holiday. You can see the shift in attire during Dasain on the streets of the city. A few days later, the pujaa for all mechanical equipment takes place - worship for all cars, generators, motorbikes, guns, you name it. Goats are sacrificed and the blood is sprinkled on whatever tools a family owns and then they are decked out with garlands of flowers and colorful powders. All cars around the city these days have flower wreaths tied to their grill. The purpose of the pujaa is to prevent accidents and offer appreciation for their services.

At the end of the first week, families in Kathmandu begin to leave the city, in their pujaa-ed vehicles, for their gaau (home village) for the real celebrations. The majority of my host family left for the village, approximately ten hours west of Kathmandu by car, last week. My aamaa (Nepali mom) has been quite sick lately - complications from a surgery she had two months ago - and due to the amount of pain she has been in and the lack of medical facilities in close proximity to the gaau, she and my little sister, Garima, remained behind. Needless to say, she was not pleased to miss out on the usual holiday festivities. Instead of swinging on pings (the Nepali word for swing - another part of this festival - the construction of massive swings out of bamboo shoots), flying kites, and celebrating with her entire family in the village, she's stuck back in Kathmandu with her sick aamaa and American didi (big sister). The only thing comparable I could think of was the year we missed Jody and Dan's Millennium New Year's Party because Miles and I had pink eye. But that doesn't begin to convey the disappointment Garima must be feeling. So this weekend I tried to be sympathetic and understanding. Despite the fact that she is a thirteen-year-old girl and thus a part of my least favorite demographic, I've really grown to love Garima over the past month and a half. She's funny, very bright, and extremely helpful. But this weekend my patience was truly tested. Because aamaa is in such pain, we've been housebound with shitty Hindi soap operas and talent shows for entertainment. And a deck of cards. Don't get me wrong, I love playing cards. I'm a big fan of cribbage and hearts and gin. I enjoy a good game of cards. But Garima has an attention span for card games like I've never seen before. When I come downstairs in the morning, she has the deck ready and such convincing doe-eyes that I have no other choice but to smile and join her. As soon as I finish my lunch plate, she has started dealing the next game. It's impressive, her ability to find entertainment in card games after hours, days, of playing. I had to teach her how to play Solitaire so that I could have a break and a chance to do some reading.

My other means of escaping Garima's incessant desire to play cards is to help my aamaa with cooking and cleaning. She's been so uncomfortable due to the pain, so her mobility is quite limited. I sit with her and chop vegetables or roll out dough for roti (mine are never as perfectly circular as hers - though it makes her laugh to see me try, and fail). We've had very simple meals this week, which is fine by me, and I enjoyed trying to ease her load a bit. The typical command of a Nepali aamaa to her guests, children, and husband is "basnus, basnus," which means "sit down, relax," as she goes about the household chores and prepares chiya or a food. I've appreciated the opportunity to take over the dishwashing or the cooking and say to her "basnus, basnus."


Dasain seems to be winding down right now. For a few days, Kathmandu felt truly empty. With everyone out in the gaau, shops were closed and the amount of vehicles on the streets was so drastically less than the usual chaotic bustle of traffic, it was quite jarring. Kathmandu almost felt quiet for a couple days. Today marks the first day in a few that stores and shops are open again and it's clear that people are beginning to return to the city and the normal pace of life. Except for the fact that there are no longer goats on the streets of the city. They're all dead, I'm sure of it.

Just as Kathmandu returns to normal, my program is headed out of town for a couple of weeks. On Wednesday morning we will fly from Kathmandu to Pokhara, a smaller city northwest of here and the gateway for the Annapurna range of the Himalayas. We will stay in Pokhara just one night before we board another plane, a very small one, to Jomsom, in the Mustang region of Nepal. The flight is supposedly just 20 minutes in length but during that time we fly from 2700 ft to 9000 ft and along one of the world's most dramatic gorges, the Kali Gandaki, between the Annapurna and Dhaulagiri ranges. I'm a little nervous.

We then head slightly south to a small village called Tukuche, where we will stay for six nights or so with families. Mainers: This gaau is known for it's coffee brandy. I'll let you know how it compares to Allen's. I have a hunch it will be a little tastier.

After the village homestay we will first head north to visit Mukinath, a religious pilgrimage site, and then embark on a trek from south of Tukuche down to Pokhara.

In sum, I'll be out of contact until the beginning of November. I can't tell you how much I'm looking forward feeling the mountain air and having Himalayan views for the next two weeks.

A few photos from the past few weeks:

A Dasain swing, or ping, constructed from bamboo shoots

tito-miTho

            It’s been a little while since I’ve written. It’s not that I’ve been super preoccupied, just busy getting into a real fluid rhythm here.

            Let me give a re-cap of the Kathmandu Half Marathon. It took place two Saturdays ago – October 2^nd. After much deliberation (perhaps not enough), I decided to register for it. My family didn’t quite understand the idea of paying to run in a race – “They should pay you!” – and they found the idea of me running 21 kms very entertaining. As I mentioned before, there are very few women who run in Nepal, or exercise at all.

            During the week leading up to the race I began to reconsider whether or not it was actually a good idea and how realistic it was that I’d survive the distance, not having run in over a month and not having run more than six miles at a time during the summer. But Friday night came around and I decided I was still committed and thus set my alarm for 4:45am and hit the hay early.            

            There were universal forces working against me however. I woke on my own in the morning and pushed the indigo light on my alarm clock. It was 5:23am! My alarm had not gone off. I was supposed to be at the national stadium before 6:00am! I scrambled out of bed, pulled on my shorts and t-shirt, grabbed my race number bibs (534) and some cab money, and ran downstairs just as my host father was coming up the stairs to my room to wake me. As I laced up my footwear for the race, a pair of barely worn Teva hiking trail shoes, I again wondered if this was a foolish endeavor and if the fact that my alarm had malfunctioned was a sign that I should go back to sleep and forget about the run.

            But, no. I was awake and was going to at least try to get to the start before the races commenced. My host father and I started the ten-minute walk from our house to the chowk (the intersection of my road and the major Ring Road). He was more awake than I and thus more concerned about getting me to the stadium on time so began to pick up the pace to a slow jog. As we approached the chowk, my father hailed the first microbus (more like a minivan) he saw and gave specific directions to the driver. A petite woman sitting by the door glanced up and held up her sneakers (real running shoes) and said she was running as well. My father told me to stick with her just as the door slide closed at the engine started.

            If the alarm failure was a bad omen, happening upon a bus with a woman running in the race was definitely a good sign. She was Nepali (up until that point I didn’t know that Nepali women runners existed) and running the full marathon – her third. As we ate our granola bars, she babbled on in Nepali about running. I think she was as excited as I was to discover a fellow runner on route to the race. I caught parts of it and was actually able to converse a little. She asked me how long I had been training. I said I hadn’t trained. I asked her, she said she had been training for a month. I wasn’t sure if that should make me feel better or worse.

            I was lucky to have found her due to the fact that we had to switch microbuses at one point and then encountered a traffic jam near the stadium and had to disembark and jog the rest of the way. When we arrived at the start, we discovered we had arrived in plenty of time. The run wouldn’t begin for another half hour. I tracked down the other kids from my group running the 5k and wished my new friend good luck in the marathon as I went over to meet up with them. As we did minimal stretching, I checked out my competition. There weren’t nearly as many runners for the half and full marathon as I had been expecting. There seemed to be an even mix of bideshis (foreigners) and Nepalis, but only about seventy people total.

            The time came to begin to congregate behind the starting line. I was finally feeling awake as I waited for the race to begin, as Bideshis were turning on their iPods, and Nepalis tightening the laces of their shoes. It was strange to be so close to the starting line. Unlike the Boston Marathon, where we shuffled along surrounded by throngs of people for twenty minutes before crossing the starting point and turning on our stop watches, I crossed the start of the Kathmandu Half/Full Marathon approximately fifteen seconds after the bell sounded.

            And off we went. Although they did not close the roads completely, the race was fairly well organized by Nepali standards. They had water stations every mile after starting after mile three and had police officers and race officials stationed to direct traffic and point runners in the right direction. The euphoria of running for the first time in over a month set in and kept me from stressing about the amount of miles I had to cover – at least for a little while.

            Running through the streets of Kathmandu was completely different than anything I’ve ever experienced before. The massive amounts of air pollution, as well as the 4000+ ft elevation – on top of the lack of training – made it also one of the most challenging runs I’ve ever done. But that’s what I had been looking for. As I said before, the amount of runners was quite small, and the group thinned out fairly quickly. For the majority of the thirteen miles I was running on my own, with only a few runners in sight. It essentially felt as though I had personal police escorts for a private run through the city. At mile four I passed a goat sacrifice at a local mandir (temple), I dodged bushels of bananas being tossed off the top of a bus at mile six, and I narrowly escaped an attack from some mangy looking street dogs at mile ten.

            I won’t lie and tell you that it was an easy feat to accomplish and that it was pain-free by any stretch of the imagination. I began to develop blisters at mile five, was ready to quit after an hour, and pulled a muscle in my foot at sometime after mile nine. But I made up my mind that I would continue to move my feet until I no longer could. And so I did finish, and did so without walking, and in a time I felt good about. In English, we would call it a bittersweet experience. The Nepali term for it is tito-miTho. 

Kathmandu's Living Goddess

We got back from Darjeeling in time for the festival of Indra Jatra. Celebrated only in Kathmandu, this festival marks the end of the monsoon season and the beginning of the morning mists, needed for a bountiful growing season and harvest. The festival also honors Kathmandu’s living goddess, Kumari.

            Oh wait, I haven’t mentioned the fact that there’s a living goddess here? Right. She resides in the Kumari Bahal in Durbar Square, the heart of Kathmandu. The Kumari is selected from a group of girls between the ages of 4 and puberty with specific physical and astrological characteristics, and subjected to a series of tests designed to scare and frighten the little girls in order to determine the true Kumari. The one who remains calm throughout the tests is named the new living goddess. Once chosen, the girl, or should I say goddess, moves into the Kumari Bahal and is unable to touch the ground or leave the building except for a few occasions a year. Her reign ends when she reaches puberty and beings her period and the search for the next Kumari begins.

            One such occasion for the Kumari to leave her palace home is Indra Jatra. On this day, the Kumari is escorted throughout the city on a large, colorful and flower-covered chariot (as she is unable to touch the ground). People, including all major government officials (the few that there are in Nepal these days), gather in Durbar Square to see her transported through the square.

            We were granted the day off from classes for Indra Jatra. A group of us met in the early afternoon to head over to Durbar Square to get a glimpse at the celebrations. The streets leading to the square were packed with Nepalis and bideshis (foreigners) alike. It was a mob scene. Once in the square we discovered that besides the areas the police were keeping open for the chariot to pass through, almost all the available standing space was occupied. Our tardiness ended up working out in our favor. The police, armed with large guns, long bamboo sticks, and large plastic shields, walked us over to the stairs of a temple in a good location and made others make room for us – in the front row! We waited patiently, clutching our wallets, cameras, and other valuables, for the arrival of the Kumari along with the throngs of others.

            When the Kumari, aboard her chariot, finally entered the main square, the crowds cheered. She was hardly visible, with the group of men surrounding her on the chariot acting as body-guards and shoving away people who got to close to the procession. Her forehead was painted red with a large gold tika in the center and dramatic black make-up had been applied to her eyes. The chariot did not remain in the square long, and before we knew it, the celebration had completed. All in all, it was kind of bizarre. To think of what it must have been like for the Kumari herself. She looked slightly terrified when she entered the square – and understandably so.

            When I returned home, my little sister greeted me at the door and looked me up and down and then started laughing. I asked what was so funny. “You were on Nepali TV tonight! I just saw you in Durbar Square on the news!” She announced. She described my location and whom I had been sitting next to, and sure enough, she was right. Funny.

            In other news, the 4^th Annual Kathmandu Marathon is next Saturday, the 2^nd of October. There’s also a half marathon and a 5K. I think I have decided to register for the half marathon, despite the fact that I haven’t run in the month I’ve been in Nepal (women don’t really run here and so it’s not totally culturally accepted to go for a jog). The last day of registration is this coming Saturday, so I’ve got some time to think it through. I know I could run the 5K, but I’m kind of in the mood for a challenge. I’m able to understand that this sort of thing will be Type Two Fun. It won’t be Type One, the type of Fun that is really enjoyable while it’s happening. It’s the type of Fun that won’t be fun until a few days later, but in the end I will (hopefully) be able to look back at it as a good accomplishment and indeed, fun. We’ll see.


The Kumari herself:

Some faces in the crowds:

Mountains, Gandalf, Mountains!

(Disclaimer: I wrote this one a few days ago but haven’t had internet access until now, hence the double-entry day today.)

            We didn’t travel aboard the Darjeeling Limited.

            Instead, we departed Kathmandu last Wednesday on Buddha Air flight 954 bound for Bhadrapur, a small city in the south-east corner of Nepal. Bhadrapur is located in the Terai, the plains region of this country, and at a grand ol’ altitude of 300ft. We then loaded into three jeeps to make the four-hour journey to Darjeeling, India, a small city in the foothills of the Himalayas and famous for its chiya (tea) and situated at an elevation of nearly 7000ft. Think about that. We traveled that difference in altitude in a matter of a few hours. Now picture what the road must have looked like. Starting off flat, the road quickly hit the base of hills and our climb commenced. The road switchbacked up the terrain, through lush jungle-like forests and alongside tea plantation after tea plantation. Our driver had decked out his jeep with brown shag carpet covering his dashboard and had an affinity for the sweet tunes of Shakira. Hearing the familiar songs distracted from the nausea-inducing road, which never remained going straight for very long before switching back in the opposite direction with potholes that often spanned the entire width of the road. The road wasn’t very wide to begin with, and when we encountered vehicles heading down the hill, our car, being the one away from the edge, had to pull all the way off the road to allow the other to pass.

            We did eventually make it to Darjeeling. Up until 1816, Darjeeling, and the area of India west of the Teesta River, was a part of Nepal. That year, Nepal’s king signed a treaty with the British government and agreed to grant that sliver of land to India after Nepal lost a brief war with the Brits. But Darjeeling still feels like Nepal to this day. In fact, the language spoken is Nepali (which enabled us to continue to improve our speaking). Darjeeling today is a part of the Indian state of West Bengal, which stretches all the way to Calcutta. Most people in the Darjeeling Hills feel unrepresented in the government because they remain so far away, both physically and culturally, from the political center of their state, located hundreds of miles away. For this reason, there has been an effort (basically since Independence in 1947) to create a separate state, known as Gorkhaland (Gorkha is the name given to Nepali-Indians). All over Darjeeling and surrounding towns, green-white-and-yellow flags fly and “WE WANT GORKHALAND” signs are posted on the sides of buildings. It doesn’t appear like anything will change in the near future.

            Darjeeling is located in very close proximity to the Himalayan peak Kanchenjunga, the world’s third highest mountain. Unfortunately, Darjeeling is perpetually in a giant cloud and views of the mountain can only be captured early in the morning, if at all. We figured it would be worth it and arose before the sun one morning and made our way to a lookout to watch the sunrise and cross our fingers that we would be graced with a view of the range. We picked the right morning. It was beautiful. There’s something about big mountains (especially some of the biggest); they have a way of making me realize just how small I really I am in the scheme of things. Check out the pictures.

            It wouldn’t be a visit to Darjeeling with out delving into the tea culture and cultivation. The next time you pour yourself a steamy mug of Darjeeling black tea, think of this region in northeast India with more tea plants than you could ever fathom. I hope I’m not spoiling anyone’s pristine image of this world-famous type of tea by divulging the fact that tea is in fact not native to the area. The British began to settle in the Darjeeling Hills as an escape from the heat in Calcutta and were so taken by the climate that they decided to attempt to grow tea as an export for revenue from the colony. They transplanted plants from a Chinese variety of tea plant, which ended up being perfect for the conditions. And thus started the Darjeeling Tea phenomenon. We visited a tea cooperative and a tea plantation during our weeklong stay. Both were Fair-Trade certified and organic – and available on the international market. The tea cooperative, known as Mineral Springs, consists of a group of individual farmers who grow tea on their property, along with ginger, pineapple (who knew pineapples grow on the ground?), cardamom, and other crops and submit only their tealeaves to the Mineral Springs cooperative for a profit. The tea plantation, Salimbong, is an old-fashioned British colonial estate, spanning hundreds of acres and growing only tea plants. It employs people from the surrounding areas (nearly every woman in town as tea-pickers) and has a factory for the actual drying, crushing, and packaging of the tea. We were able to watch the entire process. The machinery used looked like it should be included in a museum exhibit entitled “19^th-Century Darjeeling Tea Factory” and not actually utilized for the process. But they all seemed to function properly.

            If you’re lucky, I’ll share some of my Darjeeling tea bounty with you when I return.

            We returned to Kathmandu after a week of living in a cloud, and drinking delicious chiya. While it was a great escape from the heavily polluted air and congested streets of Kathmandu, I must say I was ready to get back “home.”

A Teej Weekend

A few observations from Kathmandu this weekend:

            A woman drops the three overflowing bags of trash she’s been carrying in the large garbage pile, reeking of rotten and decaying food, on the street next to the temple she then enters to do her daily puja (prayers).

            A group of Buddhist monks, men clad in maroon and orange robes who have renounced all worldly goods and possessions in honor of the dharma, drive away from a monastery in a brand-new Toyota SUV.

            Women celebrate the final, and most important, day of Teej, a festival honoring and celebrating women, by fasting for twenty-four hours in honor of their husbands.

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            Teej represents the devotion of a wife to her husband. According to Hindu tradition, the goddess of Parvati fasted and prayed for days to demonstrate her dedication to her husband, Shiva. Today, the festival spans three days (or longer, depending on the family), and is celebrated by women getting together with the other women in their extended family or friends to dance and sing and pray. As I mentioned above, the final day of Teej is marked by a fast in honor of their husbands, or, for unmarried women, in the hope of finding a good husband.

            This past weekend was Teej here in Nepal. Thursday and Friday were the days of dancing and singing, and Saturday was the day of the fast. Nearly all schools in Nepal had classes cancelled for those days. My program, however, remained on regular schedule with Nepali language classes and lectures on Thursday and Friday. My mother, sister, didi (older sister, but technically my young aunt who lives with us), and younger brother all departed on Thursday for my mother’s family’s house outside of the city to celebrate Teej. I stayed at home with my father and cousin, Bikash, who also lives with us. It felt like living in a bachelor pad. We slept in and watched soccer or cricket matches on the little TV in our living room. We discussed politics and the differences between American and Nepalese culture. We drank raksi (Nepali whisky) in the evening and ate goat meat with our daal bhat (rice and lentils) – the first meat I’ve had since arriving in Kathmandu.

            On Sunday morning after the rain stopped, following a breakfast of, you guessed it, daal bhaat, my father instructed me to grab my rain jacket (just in case) and camera and follow him out the door. He probably also included information about where we were headed, but my limited Nepali prevented me from understanding that part of the dialogue. With no other option, I did as I was told.

            It turned out he wanted to show me the sites of Kathmandu from the eyes of a Nepali, not a Western tourist. Our first stop was the Dharahara Tower in Sundara, an area in central Kathmandu. Originally built in 1832, this tall, white tower is over 200 feet tall and was intended to broadcast messages from the government of the city to the people. From the Dharahara Tower, we walked north to Kathmandu’s Durbar Square, the site of the old palace and home to numerous temples and now a major tourist destination. In order to bypass the 300 rupee fee to enter the square, enforced by men in uniforms carrying large and intimidating guns (a common sight here in Nepal), my father lead me through several “bango-tingo” alleyways to a side entrance without a ticket booth. I will try and post pictures soon because there is really no way to describe it without images. It was really refreshing to be in the company of a Nepali and avoid the constant hassling of local vendors trying to sell various trinkets, saying “please, madam, only 200 rupees.” I could have walked around for hours, but my father ushered me out of the square after only twenty minutes or so.

            Our next destination was not quite as historical as the previous two, but equally as cultural perhaps: The Kathmandu Super Mall. Just as any shopping mall in the US may have a courtyard outside the main entrance, this mall had a large garden surrounding the gateway. Unlike the courtyards outside of American malls, the Kathmandu Mall had plastic deer and dinosaurs (yes, dinosaurs) in the garden as well as a temple with large figures representing Hindu gods and goddesses. Once inside, my father led me up the escalators to the top and fourth floor, and around a few of the floors before he said it was time to leave. The amount of time and attention paid to the Kathmandu Mall was comparable to his tour of Durbar Square and the Dharahara Tower. It was an interesting experience.

            Just as I thought I was avoiding Teej celebrations all together, the next stop on my father’s tour was his own family’s celebration just outside of the city. We walked inside the house and saw about twenty-five women, all clad in beautiful and elaborate red saris and forearms covered in bangles, sitting cross-legged in a large circle. On the outside of the circle sat a Hindu priest, reading some sort of Hindu prayer. With each line he read, the women would toss various items into the center of the circle: everything from holy water, to rice, to flowers, to rupees, to bananas or apples, to color powders. Only the married women in the family gathered for the puja. A large mound of colorful debris accumulated in the center. Soon after we arrived, the puja finished and the women got up and went around to each other, giving each other tikas (a red smudge of the colored power, sometimes mixed with a little bit of water and uncooked rice, applied to the center of the forehead). I too received a tika. After all of the puja remnants had been cleared away (the rupees, whole fruit, and uncooked rice went to the priest), the women gathered for a meal before the dancing commenced. It was getting late in the afternoon at this point and I had a paper to finish and print so my father and I departed soon after.

            When we arrived back home in Samakushi, the rest of my family had returned from the weekend of Teej-ing. As much as I liked the bachelor pad set up, I was grateful to see my mother and sisters back again. By the time I went to sleep last night, I had had daal bhaat three times, a record thus far. I intend to try and limit my daal bhaat consumption to just once today.

            I’ll try to post some more pictures soon. We leave on Wednesday for a weeklong excursion to Darjeeling, India, where we’ll be visiting tea cooperatives and learning about the Gorkhaland movement in that area of West Bengal. I’ll write again after!

Take care,

Leti.