Exploration: Weekend in Pokhara

December 20, 2008

This weekend is exactly why I love to travel alone.

I arrived in Pokhara, the second largest tourist trap in Nepal, in time to walk through the souvenir corridors and catch an extraordinary sunset over Lake Phewa Tal. The next morning, I made my way to Sarangkot at 5am to watch the sun rise over the Annapurna Himalayan peaks. Despite the cloudy skies, the panoramic effect was breathtaking. Wanting a shot of myself in front of the mountains, I asked the man beside me to take my picture and was pleasantly surprised to hear him respond in English. After chatting for a few minutes, we discovered that we were not just fellow Americans, but practically neighbors back in Los Angeles. He, Gabriel Diamond, was a 37-year old independent/documentary filmmaker commissioned by the Pearson Group and the Jane Goodall Institute to travel, film, and work with NGO’s. He had just finished a stint in China and Thailand and had come to Nepal to record a short film on environmental conservation efforts in Kathmandu. Upon realizing that our hotels were in the same alley in East Lakeside, we made our way back and, over breakfast, decided to go sightseeing together and continue our engaging discussion on working abroad.

We wandered over to the Phewa Tal and rented a canoe for the day. After paddling around for a bit, we crossed the lake, parked the boat, and began the hour-long hike up to the World Peace Pagoda. With hardly a lull in the conversation, we covered everything from working in developing nations, documentary filmmaking, NGO strategies, Buddhism, the raw food movement, to Barack Obama as we made our way up the steep path. Upon reaching the top of the ridge, we took in the view and snapped a few shots of the gorgeous white and gold structure. Then, sitting atop the steps of the World Peace Pagoda, Gabriel coached me through my very first meditation. Half an hour later, we bowed and opened our eyes to gaze across at the Himalayas.
Simply Surreal.

After lunch, we checked out a snake charmer who proceeded to wrap a long yellow specimen around Gabriel’s neck, then rented a motorcycle and took a harrowing excursion to the Tashi Ling Tibetan Settlement and Devi’s Falls (unfortunately closed). Finally, we returned to the hotel to meet Gabriel’s friend Peter Dalglish, an incredibly inspiring and well-connected philanthropist and NGO-founder who had worked with the U.N. in Sudan, founded Street Kids International, and was appointed as Executive Secretary of Youth Service Canada. He spends a lot of his time now in Nepal, Tanzania, Kenya, and Thailand, and has close connections with organizations like Roots and Shoots, MSF and MDM, as well as people like Jane Goodall, Kuki Gallman (author of I Dreamed of Africa), and even Joan Baez. He came across as a quirky fellow, a man dedicated to helping in third-world countries while always managing to keep his French press and a fine Italian vintage at hand; his somewhat abrasive demeanor was offset by an indisputable passion and profound confidence in his ability to help change the world.

Peter was currently helping talented Nepalese high school students apply and pay for an American college education. In fact, Gabriel and I had found him in the middle of helping one of the top twenty students in all of Nepal fill out the Common Application. Also, just that morning, he had organized a children's march against the destruction of a park in Bandipur. About 20 kids (only in elementary school) had built a small stone barricade in the road in an effort to deter buses and their load of tourists who would inevitably leave behind heaps of trash and even human excrement in the only safe place to play in the neighborhood. Needless to say, the success of this effort was important in fostering a sense of empowerment in these underprivileged children.

After a few glasses of wine, an amazing dinner of thin-crust pizzas at Caffe Concerto, crème brulée (luxury of luxuries!) at Bistro Caroline, and a prolonged discussion about the future of Nepalese elementary education and wildlife conservation efforts, Peter, Gabriel, and I exchanged contact information and parted ways. I don't know if I'll ever see them again, but the memory will be enough to keep me satisfied. The chance of meeting people like Peter and Gabriel is why I travel alone, for had I been with a friend/group, I would never have had to ask a stranger to take my picture. All in all, I consider myself pretty damn lucky.

Adoption: Just Call Me Jeni Maharjan

December 16, 2008

The Newari family with whom I reside consists of Mama and Papa Maharjan, three sons, and a daughter-in-law (note: the Newars are an ethnic caste that dominate the central hills of the Kathmandu Valley). The older sons are studying abroad while Niroj, age 19, flunked out and spends his days playing computer games and listening to heavy metal. At 21, Reena, the daughter-in-law, is the most hard-working soul I have ever met and gets up at 6am everyday to begin her inexorable routine of washing, cooking, gardening, and cleaning for the entire family. The father, a driver, is gone most of the day and the mother helps Reena or visits with her relatives.

All were overwhelmingly gracious and warm but let me have my space, expecting me to spend most of my time with other volunteers. It seems that, though many a foreigner has come and gone, most of the people in Chapagaon have had little to no contact with the outsiders. A majority of volunteers come in pairs or meet up with other American/Europeans and stick together. Luckily, I’m the only foreigner working at the PHCRC right now and had become desperate to make some human connections. Seeing this, Mama Maharjan began taking me with her to different family gatherings and Newari festivals.

These gatherings were, in hindsight, the turning point of my time here in Nepal. On Friday, I attended my first festival held in honor of the Hindu god, Vishnu and during the meal, I used my camera to get to know first the little children, then the adults, and finally the teens and twenty-somethings. By sunset, I’d met at least 40 uncles, aunts, cousins, grandparents, and grandchildren. I particularly bonded with two boys Sahil (19) and Milan (22), who could speak English well and were bewildered by this girl whose parents allowed her to traipse around the world alone. As I was getting ready to leave, Sahil’s little sisters, Rosie and Lileo, slipped their hands into mine and asked me to come and visit their home. There, I met their older sister, Sarita (26) as well as their parents and grandparents. After two cups of chiya and an hour of broken English, clumsy pantomime, and laughter, I found myself being invited to dine with them the next day and to get my measurements taken so that Sarita, a dressmaker, could make me a special Newari sari. Needless to day, I was staggered by this wholehearted acceptance, especially when I woke up the next morning to the following text from Milan: Hi jeni godmoring r u wake up or not. Jeni u so good everybody love u 2much. Have a nice day.lov you
(Please note that boys here use “love” in a very unromantic context. It is not uncommon to see men walking hand-in-hand, and Milan refers to his affectionate and caring cousin Puru as his “romantic, love-brother.”)

Over the course of the weekend, I attended three more festivals with Niroj, Milan and Sahil and quickly began to regard them as my own brothers. At Jhatra (festival for Vishnu’s wife), Sahil bought me a carved necklace, Milan plied me with paan (sweet jellies/powders wrapped in betel leaf), and Niroj took us to various relatives’ homes to stuff ourselves with mouthwatering festival foods. These three helped me to integrate myself into the community and continue to take amazing care of me. For instance, I got this concerned text from Milanwithin hours of leaving for a weekend of sightseeing: Hi jeni r u easily reach there & how u feel, r u feeling tired, have u eat dinner or not. Two minutes later, I got this from Sahil: How was your day 2day.i think u r tired but however travelinz gud form of learning.miss your smile.

Even now, I marvel at the unabashedly sincere nature of the Nepalese. What was once a 10-minute walk home from work has now become at least 30-. Rosie’s mother insists on feeding me every time I pass by; random shopowners beckon me into their stores for a cup of chiya; old ladies bob their heads and smile toothlessly from rooftops; and boys gambling in the street holler “hello-howareyou-whereyougoing-comeplaywit’us.” Most amazingly, everyone seems to know my name. Children scream “Hi Jeni!” as I walk past their schools, and once a trucker whose face I didn’t recognize yelled out “Jeni, Namaste, remember me?” as he drove past. As if this wasn’t enough to make my “cup overfloweth,” I receive almost nightly calls from Sarita wishing me “good night and sweetie dream.” Never in a million years could I have foreseen this outpouring of love and affection; I feel so grateful and indebted to these people and have no idea how I am ever going to repay them for taking me under their wing.

Illustration: Daily Life in Chapagaon

December 13, 2008

I’ve been getting a lot of emails asking what exactly it is that I do here, so this is my attempt to describe the craziness that is Nepal:
I am currently volunteering at the Primary Health Care and Resource Center (PHCRC) in Chapagaon. Occasionally, I drop by the Anandaban Leprosy Hospital and Lalitpur Orphanage, both just a couple towns away, but most of my energy is devoted to the PHCRC’s out-patient, emergency, family planning, and birthing clinics. I was lucky enough to have timed my arrival with that of a new batch of health-assistants-in-training so I tag along and assist the in-house doctor who teaches us how to take patient histories and vitals, make simple diagnoses, prepare injections, apply dressings, take heart rate/b.p./temp/weight measurements, etc. Most come into the out-patient and emergency wards with TB, COPD (chronic obstructive pulmonary disease), gastritis, cuts and lacerations in need of stitches, and diabetes. Others come on designated days for dental work, eye checkups, immunizations, and birth control. We even deal with the occasional schizophrenic, manic depressive, or senile patient, but so far three cases have truly cost me some sleep.

The first was a five-year old girl who came in to get her burns rebandaged. Every district of Nepal suffers from mandatory daily power cuts to conserve energy and a month ago, the child had been playing by candlelight when her clothes caught on fire. She suffered 3rd-degree burns over a quarter of her body and the wounds were still oozing blood as we applied a fresh dressing on her writhing little frame.
The second was an unconscious woman who, having come to in the emergency room, began screaming hysterically. At first, I thought she was having a psychotic break but soon learned the tragic back story: her son had fallen in love with a girl who, unbeknownst to him, was engaged to another man. The day after her arranged marriage, she broke the news to him by text and the distraught boy hanged himself. His mother found him hours later and collapsed.
The third was the worst. A 22-year old had given a home delivery and the inept midwife had made a hash of stitching up the torn vaginal membranes. Two days later, she had developed a massive infection and came into the clinic to be re-sutured. I almost lost it when I saw jagged, freely bleeding cut that the midwife had inflicted on the poor girl. The stitches were crooked, the skin inflamed, and the whole thing affected even our hardened doctor. Thankfully, she recovered after a few painful days in the post-natal care ward.

Now, on to happier topics… During my free time, I visit and go on little outings/picnics with my Nepalese friends, most of whom are relatives and friends of my host family. On Saturdays, Puru and Niroj take me to the nearby Hindu and Buddhist temples at 7am to worship and catch up with neighbors. The rest of my time is spent reading by candlelight, eating and sleeping. There is no such thing as a nightlife here so everyone goes to bed at ≈9pm and wakes up at ≈6am. I’m getting an unprecedented 9 hrs of sleep a day(!), waking up to a fresh cup of chiya and biscuits and spending at least an hour just sitting on the veranda with the family, looking out over the wheat fields, and watching the rest of the community rise.

As for the food, the Nepalese traditionally eat two meals of daal bhaat (lentil curry + rice) a day, one at 10am and one at 8pm—the same thing, everyday, for their entire lives. But what the meal lacks in variety, it makes up for in quantity. Seriously, the amount of rice consumed in one sitting would blow you away. A single meal consists of about 4-5 cups of rice, 2 cups of lentil soup, 1/2 cup of fried potatoes, and 1 cup of greens. I’m not familiar with counting calories but after a quick Google search, I figured that, even with the most conservative of estimates, I’ve been consuming at least a good 1500 calories twice a day. Add to that a light lunch of deep-fried “rice donuts” and I’m pretty much on a straight path to morbid obesity.

All in all, life just can’t get any better. Thanks to good friends, good food, and good sleep, I’m finally beginning to lose that nasty gaunt/harried look I’d acquired over the past summer and fall. For the first time in a long while, I don’t wake up feeling like I’m already behind; Americans tend to live according to the dictum, “work hard, play hard,” whereas the Nepalese are much more “work hard, but take your time.” I’d always defined myself as a type-A personality, but really, I could get used to this.

Initiation: A Birth and a Marriage

December 6, 2008

Last night, I arrived at Chapagaon, the village where I will be living and working for the next month. I am currently staying with the Maharjan family who regularly takes in volunteers posted at the local health clinic, orphanage, and elementary schools. I have so much to say about this thriving rural community and its incredibly hospitable inhabitants, but I’ll have to save that for a later post because this one is dedicated to my rather intense first day.

On Saturday, I dropped by the Primary Health Care and Resource Center (PRCRC) to get myself “orientated.” As luck would have it, I arrived just as a patient was entering her second stage of labor so, instead of getting a tour of the premises, I was hastily steered into the birthing room, handed a nylon apron, and situated a mere two feet away from a fully dilated cervix.

When observing a live birth for the first time, one might expect to be wholly focused on the “nether regions,” but the first thing I noticed was the patient’s face; the mother-to-be looked far too young to be in this position. My jaw almost hit the floor—or at least the patient’s foot—when I glanced at her chart and realized she was barely 21… and giving birth to her second child. The girl was obviously in tremendous pain, but never once did she let out anything louder than a low moan. A grueling hour later, the baby began to crown. For anyone who’s seen Knocked Up, I promise you, it’s even stranger up close and personal. I like to believe that I’m not squeamish when it comes to blood/guts/the whole shebang, but nothing, NOTHING, could have prepared me for the moment when the nurse grabbed a pair of shears and swiftly (and I’ll put this in the least graphic way possible) enlarged the opening by at least an inch so that the head could slide out with minimal damage. Luckily, I wasn’t so perturbed that I missed the timing of the birth and after a few tense seconds of staring at the wrinkly, blue little bundle of Munchkin goo, I was able to whisper, “Male. Time of birth, 11:47am.” Afterward, I busied myself with weighing the newborn (3kgs) and tucking him into his makeshift cradle/manger—not only because I wanted to better inspect this tiny new specimen of human life, but also because I needed a moment to get used to the sight of the nurse patching up the damage inflicted by those treacherous shears. Once all the vitals were taken and the mess cleared away, I was whisked off to begin my grand tour.

I returned to the Maharjans’ home in a bit of a daze and looking forward to a shower and a nap, but I was met at the threshold by my host brother, Niroj (age 20), and his two cousins, Puru (27) and Kapil (28). They had come to take me to a friend’s wedding where I would be able to not only attend the ceremony, but also partake in the subsequent banquet.
The moment I stepped onto the temple grounds, all thoughts of speculums and placentas vanished. The cobblestones were strewn with red and yellow powders, flowers, uncooked rice and fruit and the picnic area was roped off with strings of halogen lights and brilliant tapestries; at the center of the temple stood the brightly clad guests, crowded around the kneeling bride and groom. One they were pronounced husband and wife, we all moved over to the banquet mats and were served the most incredible Newari feast. There was chiura (beaten rice), tarkari (heavily spiced vegetables), achaar (chili sauce), choyla (a smoky buffalo barbeque), tawkhaa (curried, jellied buffalo meat), daal (lentil), tahma (bamboo casserole), chiya (tea), jaad (rice beer) and other traditional delicacies. Over the next hour, I ate more than I’ve ever eaten in my entire life. I thought polishing off the Domino’s 5-5-5 special in less than 4 hours was a brag-worthy feat, but this took marathon eating to a whole new level. A stream of servers made their way around the guests and the second you were half-finished with your tarkari or choyla, someone swooped in to replenish your already laden plate. The Newaris eat with their hands, using their index, middle, and ring fingers to scoop up the food and their thumb to push it into the mouth; incidentally, the guests found it hilarious to watch me give myself a curry facial.

After eating, we washed up and took our turns serving the next batch of hungry diners. Everyone shared a good-natured laugh while watching the foreigner awkwardly make her rounds with a basket of chiura. One old man gently clasped my arm as I was ladling out some daal and told me in broken English that his whole family was “so happy that American make party with us.” Suffice it to say, I was overwhelmed by the Nepalese hospitality. Everyone was genuinely eager to talk and take pictures, or if unable to speak English, flash a warm smile. That night, I walked home bloated with rice and exhilaration and could hardly fall asleep in anticipation of the upcoming month. I already know that I won’t ever want to leave and have no doubt that I am going to have the time of my life.

Orientation: Touchdown in Nepal!

December 2, 2008

Namaste! (Nepalese nat'l greeting – translation: I bow to the god in you)
After a 2hr train ride from Oxford to Harlington, two stops on the Underground to Heathrow, a 10-hour flight with a pitstop in New Delhi, and a harrowing drive in the back of a dilapidated jitney (or what passes for a taxi here), I arrived in Kathmandu! I am currently staying in a budget tourist hostel located just outside of Thamel, the tourist ghetto of Nepal. The first thing that hits you as you enter the city is the smell—a pungent and dusty combination of incense, curry, and sewage. Thamel is teeming with tourists, trekkers, and (wannabe) hippies, and the streets are overflowing with restaurants and shops, with stands/carts/rickshaws squeezed into every available nook and cranny. At the same time, the pace of life here in Nepal is incredibly relaxed and laidback. The crazy motorists (think Asian driver stereotype on speed) keep things nice and hectic, but every server and shopowner is eager to take five or ten minutes to chat with a lonely tourist, offer sightseeing advice, and impart some essential Nepali phrases like “how much for a cup of rice beer?” Also, there is no stopping a cashier if he wants to dig through five drawers for a broken cig while you wait for your change.

Though the shops, and requisite bargaining, were too much to handle for the first day, I managed to do some serious damage in the restaurant sector. Over the course of an evening, I sampled Tibetan buffalo momos (steamed dumplings), Newari tawkhaa (jellied, curried meat), Indian samosas from a street vendor (fyi: hygiene is overrated), a sad attempt at an American jelly donut, and, of course, the ubiquitous chiya (a heavenly mixture of Nepali tea, milk, sugar and spices), which is the national drink and enjoyed throughout the day in the home and workplace. All this for less than $5! Seriously, the prices are a God-/Buddha-/Vishnu-send. I can finally eat w/o emptying my bank account! I mean, while England’s great and all, the amount of money I spent on food was verging on the obscene. Then again, I felt as though I was literally committing a crime against the vendor when I forked over the NPR equivalent of 13¢ for 2 large samosas.

Anyway, it’s late in the evening and definitely not the best time to wander alone so I’m going to carefully make my way back to the hostel. The roads are a hodgepodge of dirt, chunks of broken pavement and rocks, so without any streetlights you never really know when or at what elevation your foot will hit the ground. Luckily, the dinky b/w television set in my room gets not only Indian MTV but also StarWorld, a channel devoted to American sitcoms, soaps, and dramas. Guess I’ll be passing out to Bollywood music vids or Friends reruns. Or, heaven forbid, that criminally awful 90210 remake.

And on that note… Jeni out.