Kathmandu, Revisited

It has been four months since my first incredible visit to Nepal. This past weekend I returned with my friend Trishna for a short break from Chittagong and to celebrate her father's promotion to a major general in the Nepali army (I know, impressive). As we flew into the valley, I took in the breathtaking view. There were no thunderstorms this time so I could see clearly, the rugged rise of the land and then thousands of houses spreading out as far as the eye could see. I waxed poetic about the mountains surrounding Kathmandu to which Trishna shook her head in amused exasperation, "Those are hills, Jess. Hills."




A familiar, round-faced 10 year old met us at the airport. Abhishek grinned up at us, having brought with him his perpetual cheerfulness and bars of chocolate. We chatted merrily in the car on the way back to Trishna's house about his own upcoming adventure called "immigrate to America." Trishna's family welcomed us with open arms, Doodle, grandparents, her mother, brother, and her father who I had not met on my last visit. Given his position and career choice, I was somewhat intimidated to meet this general who's pictures with US presidents and Joint Chiefs line the walls of Trishna's house. But her father was as warm and open as the rest of the Ranas.

Signs of the promotion and the celebration to come surrounded us. Bouquets of flowers in vases (nothing compared to the hundreds that would appear the next day), a whole, roasted wild boar (a Nepali delicacy) in the refrigerator, chocolate cake, foreign beer and fancy whiskey, embroidered saris on hangers waiting to be tried on.

(all the flowers given)

And try them on we did. By 6pm the next night, the family looked stunning, especially the women. Trishna's grandmother dotted all of our foreheads with red tikka, for luck. And good thing too because 1000 people turned up to the promotion party which was held at the Kathmandu military club under a large tent top full of twinkling lights and complete with a dance floor. Visitors entered and greeted the general and his wife with flowers and congratulations before ambling into the outside tent to eat a feast and drink an unending supply of everything from water to soda to wine to whiskey.

(me and Rana family)

Trishna had a lot of responsibilities being part of the honored family but she did not abandon me entirely. She sent Abhishek to keep me company and he showed me all around the party, whispering gossip about attendees, making sure he pointed out the people he considered important. The Commander in Chief of the army. The ex-prime minister. His teachers and best friends. The man serving ice cream cones. He didn't leave my side until the dancing started. And then he was one of the first on the floor along with his grandparents, his aunts, uncles, cousins and even, yes, the general himself. The party was in full swing.

As I watched Abhishek dance with his family, his utter joy and complete lack of self-consciousness, I felt a small tug of sadness about his impending move to the U.S. He's such a happy kid, in love with his grandparents, so at home in his own country and culture. The idea of disrupting that kind of contentment, the idea of dropping him into 6th grade class in the middle of Boston, the idea of taunts or indifference from other kids, the idea of him facing what can only be described as a strong taste of absence- (absence of momos, his language, his grandfather's calling voice) seems unbearably cruel. And he has no idea that this lies ahead.

(Abhishek)

The party went late into the night as the crowd slowly dwindled and the men consumed more whiskey stirred into water. As the people diminished it became easier to actually observe what was going on. A second meal was served at midnight. Almost everyone sat down to eat except one of the younger men who stood off to the side pealing a brightly colored piece of fruit. I watched the boy's intent face, more complicated than handsome, as he lowered his dark brown mouth into the incandescent orange.

But at last, the celebration ended. When all the boar and roti and oranges had been eaten and legs grew tired from dancing, the twinkle lights began to be taken down. I have to admit that despite the excitement, I was ready to get out of the sari and into pajamas when we finally pulled into Trishna's aunt's house for the evening. The crowd had exhausted me. As I brushed my teeth and changed into a Braves t-shirt, all I could think about was my bed, but even though I wanted to go to sleep, I didn't want to wash the red tikka off.

The rest of the trip was like taking a deep breath after the month I've had at school. We saw two movies (including Harry Potter!) in a tall, spectacular cinema with unnecessary AC, a bucket of hot popcorn, and power that never ran out. We had masala tea and momos in the old palace gardens. There was a lazy lunch the afternoon following the party where the leftover wild boar and pineapple cake was served. The lunch had a familiar feeling to it despite the fact that I was a guest- that feeling of the day after a party when everyone is tired but the memories of the night before are still fresh and exhilarating, when everyone relives the best moments of the evening yet is content that the celebration is over. I think I often like the lunch the day after a party better than the party itself but I'm strange that way.

(in the old palace gardens)

We ran out of time and just a few days after arrival, we had to go back to Chittagong. I left with blue bangles on my wrists and red tikka, bestowed once again by Trishna's grandmother, on my forehead. (I never mind taking extra luck with me on a flight). The hours had been short but the trip felt full. We were the only two women on our plane and in the rows behind us sat at least a hundred men all wearing identical baseball caps, stamped with the logo of a Middle Eastern company they must have worked for. Their faces were young but heavy. It was clear that none were leaving Nepal for a holiday or to explore South Asia. All were leaving because the stomachs of their families depended upon their absence. As we exited into the terminal the group gathered together, lined up against the wall, and waited. Waited for instructions. Waited for someone in charge to point out their new gate. Dhaka was just another port on the way to being away.

They were still standing against the wall as Trishna and I disappeared around the corner, heading for our own gate, the one that would take us home.

Nepal

Imagine a plane. I'm on that plane flying into the Kathmandu Valley-- mountains surround us on all sides. The plane bounces up and down and up ahead there are dark clouds, lightening, rain. I hold my breath because I'm pretty sure I've seen this in an Indiana Jones movie. But we land, somehow managing not to crash. On the ground, the storm rages and every time the thunder explodes, it echoes across the valley like I'm sitting inside an enclosed amphitheater. Welcome to Nepal.

My trip was less than a week but so much seemed to happen. It was a mixture of adventure and family-- starting with Trishna's where we visited in Kathmandu. In a beautiful, tall brick house surrounded by flowers and greenery in the heart of the city we met her mom, grandparents, her thoroughly charming nine year old cousin Abhishek and her dog Doodle. It was like being at home-- all the things we miss about family. Her grandmother patting our cheeks and insisting we eat. Joking with her grandfather about cricket. Watching Doodle flop over on his back to insist on a belly rub.

(me and Abhishek at Bhaktapur)

Kathmandu is a city of rooftops and terraces. And it is a city of ancient temples and palaces. The day after we arrived Trishna and Abhishek showed Calynn and I around town. We visited Darbur Square, a series of old palaces and temples in the main part of Kathmandu. I love old buildings and ruins so this was incredible for me. The most fascinating part was the mixture of ancient history and current daily life: teenagers lounged on the steps of the temples. Old men chatted and ate lunch. Women and children sat under umbrellas selling peanuts. One of the squares we visited called Bhaktapur was slightly outside of Kathmandu. Trishna's mom showed us around in the late afternoon and as the sun began to set the temples awoke with those visiting for prayer, another indication that the shrines are not simply old relics of the past but alive in the present. Seeing these spaces that have been gathering spots for 800 years still a part of every day, back and forth, life gave me a new perspective on how the artifacts a culture cherishes and remembers don't have to simply fade to appreciation. They can be remembered and treasured through simple enjoyment.

(pigeons at Darbur Square)

After a few days in Kathmandu Calynn and I headed off to Pokhara, a tourist town sitting beneath the Anapurna Himalayan mountain range. Before you ask, no friends I did not see Mt. Everest although I certainly feel as if I have. The first day of our trek we walked straight up for about three hours. Up and up and UP until we finally arrived at a tiny village called Dhampus. The village was nestled on the side of a mountain and in front of us were the Himalayas. I've put off writing this update mostly because I don't have words to describe the mountains we saw and how it feels to see them. It's a bit how I imagine standing on the edge of space must be or plummeting to the ocean floor in a submarine-- almost surreal and a little terrifying. I never knew the earth was so tall and having them just there, right there as you drink tea and eat breakfast, right there as a storm blows in full of cold thunder, right there at night underneath bright stars is breathtaking and otherworldly.

(Annapurna II (around 7937m/26,040ft)

(Annapurna II and Machapuchare or FishTail 6993m/22,943)

I have seen so many amazing things. Watching the sunrise over the Himalayas and hiking back down through the forest of Nepal. The monkey temple in Kathmandu, an ancient Buddhist stupa with a mile long stair case and giant stone carved Buddhas standing guard- the entire valley below. Adolescent Nepali boys spontaneously handing us red rhododendrons as we passed by on the trail. This trip to Nepal, like my travels through southern Africa, will remain at the top of my list for a very long time.

(monkey temple)

The morning we left to head back to Bangladesh I couldn't sleep. I climbed up to Trishna's rooftop to sit and watched the city wake up. The mountains around the valley were hazy-- barely visible-- a long way from the village of Dhampus. I wore a turtleneck and scarf in the chilly morning air. I could hear the bell from Trishna's grandmother's prayers and imagined the smear of the red tikka on her forehead. The car was being washed. The plants watered. People bathed. The world was content in itself. All I wanted to do was stay.

Notes on a Cricket Match

Don't worry I'm not going to try to make you understand the rules of cricket (although they're pretty simple), a game which for most Americans is sort of like baseball only much sillier. You don't really need to know the rules for this story. All you need to know is that yesterday the Cricket World Cup arrived in Chittagong for the Bangladesh versus England match. Bangladesh was coming off one of the worst performances in World Cup history against the West Indies and faced elimination if they lost.

As we walked to the stadium we seemed to attract more attention than usual. What was remarkable (and later very unfortunate) was that despite the fact that we were all wearing Bangladesh jerseys, were covered in red, green, and tiger face paint, were carrying a large Bangladeshi flag, multiple people asked us who we were supporting or just concluded that we were supporting England. Our skin and their assumption screamed louder than any flare we carried. I'm still amazed by the power of expectations to erase what is really there.

The match started out well for Bangladesh, who are much better bowlers (pitchers) than they are batsman (hitters). We held England down to a 225 (not a very high score believe it or not) even though they towered over our players on the field making the Bangladeshis look like little boys with toy bats. Still, batting started out pretty good too and for awhile I thought we might eventually arrive at a solid, moving win. But I was wrong.

The heart of Bangladeshi team is the captain, a young kid named Shakib al Hasan. He's what cricket folk call an all-rounder meaning he can do pretty much everything. And he was, slowly chipping away at England (as my friend Calynn says, "Cricket is a war of attrition"), with his partner in crime Irmul Kayes. But then just as suddenly everything changed. Imrul got out and Shakib followed shortly after. The moment Shakib fell the energy seemed to be sucked out of the stadium. Two more wickets collapsed in quick succession and all I could do was hope Bangladesh's loss would be like the certain blade of the guillotine and not the prolonged torture of a slow bleed out.

Everything deteriorated. Half the crowd left. Some of the Bangladeshis sitting around us began chanting "England! England!" I was floored at how quickly some of the spectators turned. The irony was a group of Americans and a Nepali and were more loyal to a country we've lived in for seven months than many of its life-long citizens. Not everyone deserted the team. Some looked nervous and dejected but not yet ready to abandon their boys. We dwindled down to the last few batters, who were not batsman at all (pretend your'e pinning your last hopes for homeruns on two rookie pitchers).

All I can say is that the Bangladeshi come back was like a triple A team beating the New York Yankees at the bottom of the 9th with two outs in the final game of the World Series, or if you prefer basketball: sinking a three point shot at the buzzer in the NCAA Championship. The final two batsman resurected the disheartened crowd with a few miraculous hits and many more singles to follow. With the final remaining chances, Bangladesh at last pulled ahead and Chittagong erupted. The stands were electric, convulsing with a poetic rhythm. I never thought I'd dance in public in a country where men almost exclusively fill stadiums but as everyone around cheered and screamed and sang we all found ourselves without any other sense than that of the sweet joy of victory when defeat had seemed so certain.

(photo courtesy of BBC)

The other fans we'd spent the last 10 nailbiting hours with felt like family. Overjoyed groups of young men rushed to shake our hands, to thank us for our support, to assert that we were good luck charms. Basking in the triumph that felt every bit our own I was reminded of all the things I love about sports-- besides the winning: The game's ability to, even if only for a brief moment, make everyone forget about all the ways we are different and care only about the one factor in which we are united. For a few minutes last night, it did not matter that I was white or a woman or American or that I was not Muslim, married or wearing an orna. Everyone was the same.

But more than that-- I often find one of the most difficult aspects of life is truly living in the moment. I waste so much unintentional energy thinking about the past and worrying about the future. It's rare that I am inside a moment and and doing nothing more than just experiencing it. The few times I've been able to: during the madness of the campaign, the intensity of a high school crush, yesterday's cricket match are exhilarating and to be cherished. Sports often open this window into the immediate present difficult to find elsewhere.

The adventure did not end with the game. We still had to get out and find our way back to a very far away car. Upon exiting the stadium we saw before us a true mob of men who had not attended the game, surging forward, being beaten with sticks by the police. We ducked back into the stadium and as we saw the police begin to run, we ran too. Making it a safe distance into the stadium grounds I turned just in time to see an avalanche of shoes arch over the gates and shower down on us below. The crowd were launching its shoes at the cops, the ultimate insult (think George W Bush vs. Iraqi journalist). We had to end up leaving out the back with a police escort to the main road. Once we reached the main road we were on our own and suddenly my skin became a liability like it never had before. Boos echoed through the streets at the sight of us and we knew there was no convincing anyone that we were truer Bangladeshi fans than they were.

To make a long story short thanks to the help of an older man who spoke no English and a dear Bangladeshi friend with a car, we were scooped off the insane streets of the city and whisked away to Mahah's house where I promptly collapsed at 3 in the morning, still wearing my jersey.

The day was a day of being alive. The day was a great one.

Mother Language Day

Last Monday, Bangladesh took the day off in honor of International Mother Language Day, a holiday that holds special meaning for Bangladeshis. I haven’t written very much about this but the people of this country are fiercely proud of their language (something I can understand thanks to the French in my blood I suppose). In 1952, when Bangladesh was still considered East Pakistan, Pakistan attempted to impose Urdu as the national language. This resulted in mass student protests where many students were killed. In Dhaka there is an enormous memorial dedicated to the memory of those who died to preserve Bangla. In Chittagong there is a memorial as well though it is much smaller.

(Lyny and Deepti, Cambodia/Nepal)

(Oanh, Giang, and Tien from Vietnam)

On the morning of the holiday we woke up early and gathered at AUW to march to the Chittagong memorial carrying a wreath of flowers and an overflowing amount of Bangladeshi pride. In a particularly moving show of unity, one of our students holding the wreath was actually from Pakistan. As we began the long walk, collecting stares along the way, I found myself smiling widely. Not only were we the bizarre sight of fifty grown women out on the streets together but our group also consisted of Nepalis, Vietnamese, Cambodians, Chinese, and Americans.

The crowd leading up to the language memorial was enormous and festive. Men sold Bangladesh flags, headbands, bracelets. Faces were painted. Bangla songs sung. Laughing, excited children were out in droves. I usually feel a little wary, at least in my own country, of such fervent displays of nationalism but these kinds of celebrations feel different in countries that are decades rather than centuries old. When Independence exists in living memory, commemoration is not just about the idea but what was experienced.

The next day at school there was a celebration of all of AUW’s languages. Students from each country performed poems or dances or songs in their own mother languages. I was not there but everyone who was, from teachers to students, spoke of the event with incredible emotion. Listening to their reactions, I could not help but think about how the old traditions and ways of those in a new world become acutely precious. Like when one of my Cambodian students said she never thought of herself as Buddhist until she arrived at AUW, until she was placed in sharp relief to the other Muslim, Hindu, and Christian students. Only then did she understand how she was different and who she was.

We work so hard to not have the individual countries band together, to encourage the students to search outside of what they know but there’s no way to fault the impulse to desire the familiar. Especially since we foreign teachers do exactly the same thing. My sense of Americanness and love of country is never more heightened than when I’m not in the U.S. The truth is I usually feel very little when I sing the Star Spangled Banner at baseball games but singing under the Southern sky in a tiny pinprick of a village in Rehoboth Namibia I had to fight back tears.

So much more to write about but I will spare you for now. Trip to Nepal coming up in March. An incredible number of exciting school projects going on. And of course the Cricket World Cup (yes, I understand cricket now). More stories soon...

* Many of these photos courtesy of Calynn Dowler

Lunar New Year and Saraswati Puja

Chinese New Year Dumpling Feast...

(Professor Sangita chopping ginger!)

(making Chinese dumplings)

(more dumplings)

Saraswati Puja...

(Hindu priest with Saraswati statue behind him)

(Sri Lankan student, Ruwani)

(Hindu temple)