Friday, October 25, 2013

Dashain

Dashain, the greatest of Hindu festivals, celebrates the triumph of good over evil. Legend has it that long ago a demon king, made invincible by the god Shiva, was terrorizing the good people and gods. Desperate, the gods turned to the goddess Durga, giving her all their various weapons, to defeat him. After fighting for 9 days, Durga finally defeated him on the tenth day. Fifteen days in total, Deshain is arguably the greatest Hindu festival. Children have two weeks’ vacation from school, family members return to their childhood homes, and the country essentially shuts down for a few days.

Dashain starts on the first no-moon night in autumn. On the first evening, a water jug representing Durga is placed in the prayer room of the house, with barley seeds sown in sand surrounding it. The water jug and seeds are watered with holy water following a pujaa (offering) each day. Because my father’s father passed away within the past year, my family did not perform many of the rituals of Dashain. Fortunately, an uncle (who is more like my first uncle twice removed) invited us to his home to watch the process.




Beginning on the seventh day, animals, representing the evils of humanity, are sacrificed. Traditionally, this consisted of a water buffalo (anger), goat (lust), rooster (goat), sheep (stupidity), and either chicken or duck (timidity), but nowadays most people stick to the water buffalo and goats. On the eighth day, at 7:30am, my father, brother and I headed down to my great uncle’s house to observe a kasi (castrated goat) sacrifice. If you have a weak stomach, I encourage you to skip the next paragraph and pictures. 

After doing pujaa, my great uncle wielded a kukuri (machete-like knife) and swung it down across the kasi’s neck. Unfortunately for all (though mostly the kasi), the blade didn’t go all the way through and he had to strike another blow to behead it successfully. I later learned that Nepalis do have a process for ensuring that the goat is willing to be sacrificed: if the kasi moves its head, it’s taken as a sign of consent (though I’d like to see a goat that didn’t try to move while being restrained). With the legs still kicking, my uncles and cousins drained some of the spurting blood into a bowl. Next, they poured boiling water onto the skin to ease the removal of the kasi’s hair, which they performed by scraping with a metal cup (the sound of which was almost sickening) and later by shaving with razor blades. Meanwhile, another uncle charred and chopped up the head. After all the hair had been removed, they covered the skin with an orange spice and handed it over to the butcher. He proceeded to remove the entire gastrointestinal tract (which my father cleaned), heart, liver, lungs and all the rest. In the meantime, my great uncle removed the brain, eyes, tongue, and ears from the head. When everything had been cut and weighed, only the hair, bladder, kidneys, and skull had been discarded. My family took half of the meat, which would last us and our guests the entire next week (which, with the lack of refrigeration, is more than just a little sketchy). I had been a vegetarian before Dashain, but at my mother’s behest I ate meat for the festival. While I can now proudly say that I’ve eaten just about every part of a goat, I’ve reverted back to vegetarianism.










On the tenth day, Nepalis visit each others’ homes and receive tika, a mixture of rice, yogurt, and red dye. Seated before the most senior woman in the household, tika is placed on the forehead and the shoots of barley (having grown considerably from the first day) are played on the receiver’s head and behind the ears. In exchange for this blessing, fruit and money are given to the household. My family did not give or receive tika this Dashain, but I was invited to three other homes. Because of my guest status, I actually received money from my elders, but finished at a net loss after giving gifts to all the girls in my family. Interestingly, a girl in a friend’s host family was not allowed to participate in the festivities because she menstruating at the time. Imagine not being able to celebrate Christmas because you were on your period!



Receiving tika


Along with gifts, people typically receive and wear new clothing for Deshain. Six of my friends and I decided to have dura surwals, the traditional formal dress of Nepali men, made in time for the holiday. At my encouraging, we went to my village’s tailor, who had made clothes for several of last year’s trainees, to get measured and choose fabric. Our shirts, pants, vests, and topis (a traditional hat worn by Nepali men), he assured us, would be ready within two weeks, in time for the festival. As the date approached, however, we grew increasingly concerned that he might not finish in time. His shop was often closed, or he was making other clothes, or he once he even watched us during a technical training session. In the week leading up to our deadline, a number of calamities befell his family: first, his niece committed suicide; a few days later, his granddaughter had to go to the hospital; the following day, his wife went missing (she had gone out drinking). Despite considerable pressure from my language teacher, aunt, and father, he balked and didn’t finish in time. Now, a full two weeks after we had requested our clothes be ready, they still sit unfinished in his workshop. He hasn’t apologized and has refused to discount the clothes, the total price of which amounts to around 12,000 rupees (over $100, a considerable sum). All in all, the situation has proven to be extremely difficult for me: having convinced my friends to walk several hours to come to this particular tailor, who had been endorsed by current volunteers, I feel that I’ve let them down; the tailor, a friendly, helpful man, had to deal with a series of family emergencies but failed to follow through on his promise and has shown no remorse; as a Dalit, he is already victimized in the community; yet in his actions he has reinforced the stereotypes of laziness, dishonesty, and discourtesy associated with his caste. And we still don’t have our clothes. Thankfully, I received a shirt from my father and topis from my brother and uncle as Deshain gifts, allowing me to walk around the village looking just a little more Nepali.
Another tradition of Dashain is ping, a tall swing made from bamboo and rope. Hindus believe that one should lift off the ground at least once a year, leaving one’s worldly worries behind. Assembling a ping can take several hours, between digging the holes, making the ropes, lashing together the bamboo, and raising the whole structure. Once built, crowds of children line up for their turn at ping, sometimes going two at a time and synchronizing their movements to achieve maximum height. Talented, fearless swingers can get as high as 30 feet up, the arc of their motion reaching almost a full 180 degrees.







Deshain is also a time for reconciliation. After the goat sacrifice, my parents, apparently in a bit of a feud with our relatives next door, approached my brother and me with plates of spice and meat and asked us to deliver them to our grandmother next door. The gift, simple and somewhat impersonal, brought her to tears, and through her rapidly mumbled Nepali I comprehended the extent of her gratitude. Since then, however, relations haven’t improved. When a Nepali woman’s husband dies, it is common that she must cook, clean, and fetch water herself for the following year, but the extent of my grandmother’s exclusion seems extreme. Its gravity was especially apparent when, a few days later, my father and his mother found each other at the water tap at the same time and didn’t speak a single word to each other.

Nevertheless, our family enjoyed some great times during Deshain. My didi (older sister), her husband, and her two sons spent a few nights with us. I had a lot of fun with my two banjas (nephews), 13 and 11 years old, playing cards and listening to American music. My didi’s husband (my binaaju), an officer in the Nepali army, apparently enjoyed drinking with me, passing out early both nights after one too many glasses of beer. My second-oldest brother, a policeman, came from Kathmandu on his motorbike. He too spent most nights drinking. My father, prohibited from drinking raksi due to his father’s passing, was still permitted to drink bottled liquor; after a single glass, he was always smiley and giddy. With all the revelry, I was obliged to indulge as well. Raksi, the local alcohol made from fermented millet, is a little like sake in its flavor and strength. Aside from one bad night, I got along pretty well with the stuff.

After All, Bholi Is Another Day

My computer hasn’t been working for the past few weeks (hopefully just a bad battery), so I’m using a friend’s to write this. A number of notable things have happened since I last wrote. Perhaps most significantly, we received our site assignments. After swearing in as a volunteer, I’ll be moving to the municipality of Shreegaon in the district of Dang. There, I’ll be working with a medical officer out of a primary health center to promote nutrition health education within the community, among other things.






Initially, I wasn’t entirely thrilled with my placement: Dang is near the Tarai, the lowlands of Nepal famous for their heat, malaria, and snakes (including cobras). After reading through the entire report, however, my feelings grew more positive. I’ll going to be in a relatively flat area, which will make travel quicker (we have the option of getting a bike, but I’m pretty shaky on two wheels). I’ll also be working with a physician, a career path I hope to pursue after Peace Corps. Finally, the health center has a large plot of unused land that they need help managing. With the various technical trainings we’ve had lately (especially composting, nursery development, permagardening, and beekeeping), my head is swarming with ideas for the space.

For us to meet our government counterparts and new host families, Peace Corps planned a group trip to Nepalgunj (a large city near the Indian border) followed by individual visits to our sites. We were supposed to depart this past Monday, but were informed last Thursday that the trip had been cancelled. A temporary Nepal-wide ban on long-distance government travel, along with the U.S. government furlough, left us all without the means to go. The cancellation of the trip, for which a week and a half had been allotted, frustrated some of us who wanted a break from the highly structured, sometimes tedious schedule of pre-service training. Instead, we’ll now have an additional week and a half of language classes, family time, and restricted freedom.
In addition, due to the turmoil in anticipation of the upcoming Nepali Congress election, rumors have been circulating that our Swearing-In Ceremony (just two days after the election) is likely to be delayed. News here in the hills is somewhat scant, but political tensions (or at least activities) appear to be mounting somewhat. Last week a candidate was apparently assassinated, news of which only reached me from a current volunteer several days later. This past week, I’ve seen several trucks flying the flags of various political parties. Two days ago, a number of Maoist party politicians met in the home of my language teacher. Yesterday, I met a large group of men walking through the village hanging out fliers and putting up posters. From the few minutes of Nepali news and the one Nepali newspaper I’ve read, I have a feeling that our isolation is insulating us from much of the action for the present, but we’re scheduled to spend nearly a week in Kathmandu leading up to our Swearing-In Ceremony. With the all the bandhs that have been declared, travel to and within the city may not be possible around election time.




A political rally in Chautara


There is a saying among Peace Corps staff that bholi (tomorrow) never comes in Nepal.  While we are excited for our future here, we don’t yet know when it will arrive, or what to expect until then.

Friday, October 4, 2013

Friends, Community, Family: Uste

For me, Sunday was the most difficult day yet. In the morning, one volunteer received news that a close friend had died; another learned that her aunt had passed away. Dealing with death from this distance and isolation seems extremely hard and is something that many of us will likely experience over the next two years. That afternoon, our first volunteer announced that she would be leaving us. She was struggling with adjusting and with homesickness; on a happier note, she is returning to the states to be married. Many cried to see her go, and it upset us more than we expected. Her departure made us realize that though we’ve known one other for just three weeks, we’ve already become very invested in one another. Ironically, that afternoon we had a session on volunteer resiliency. One of its themes was that to endure the next two years, we will need one other.

The following day, the volunteer living next to me moved into the house of our departed volunteer (which makes sense, given that since living next door she has acquired a sinus infection, lice, and fleas), but her relocation has left our neighbors upset and ashamed. News travels fast in the community, and it is not always accurate. For example, a few days ago, one of the volunteers told her family that she had been drinking in Chautara. The next day, her family told the LCF (language and cultural facilitator) that she had been so drunk that she could barely stand. This was simply not true, as the LCF and I had walked home with her from Chautara, and she had been fine (in actuality, she had tripped on a stool while rushing to get water after eating a hot pepper, which her family took for drunkenness). On another occasion, a volunteer commented to a community member that her family all seemed to share one toothbrush. When she returned home that evening, she noted a bunch of new toothbrushes in a cup by the water tap.

Part of the reason for this gossip is the community’s interrelatedness, which has proven quite a challenge to sort out. Nepalis have a very inclusive attitude towards family: elderly acquaintances are introduced as kaakaa (uncle) or hajur baa (grandfather); strangers may be called didi (big sister) and young girls bahini (little sister). This makes identifying actual nuclear families tricky. It seems like every day we learn of a new relation that we had not previously realized. On day three, I learned that our next-door neighbors are my father’s brother’s family. A few days later, I discovered that his mother (and therefore my grandmother) lives with them upstairs. His aunt up the road is hosting our LCF; there are volunteers staying with both of her two sons and one of her daughters. Nepalis have a saying that they seem to take quite seriously: “may your sons populate the hills.”

By the way, uste is Nepali for “same.”

Despite (or perhaps because) so many family members live in such close proximity to one another, there seems to be considerable drama in the community. This came to our attention during the first week, when the neighboring volunteer and I noted that our families completely ignore each other. My father’s younger brother (the father in the house next door), who is a police officer in Kathmandu, has only been home once so far, but I did not observe any interaction between the two siblings. My father doesn’t speak to his mother either, not even acknowledging her when she comes outside on occasion.  Though the most convenient path to their house is across our porch, our neighbors always walk the long way aroundInterestingly, we keep our house, barn, kitchen (which is separate from the house) and even the bathroom (also separate) locked when they are not in use. We’ve asked our LCF about these peculiarities, but she has only given vague, noncommittal answers about property inheritance and family hierarchy. Yesterday I asked my host parents whether they like the neighbors, to which my father responded, “Yes, they’re my brother and mother.” Hopefully during Deshain, the upcoming Hindu festival in which many family members return home, I’ll get to press the issue a little more. I’d like to get to the bottom of this family feud and maybe lend a hand in helping them to sort it out.

Aside from this little side-drama, I have a lovely family. My aamaa (mother) and bubaa (father) are in their mid-fifties: they always call me baabu, which means baby boy. They seem to work hard during the day, making tea, cooking meals, cutting grass for our many livestock, tending the fields, fetching water, smearing cow dung on our house (more on this another time), and doing other chores that I do not yet understand with my limited Nepali. As is typical in Nepal, my aamaa seems to have more on her plate than my bubaa (more on gender roles another time as well). Both (but my aamaa especially) are extremely gracious hosts, always offering tea and fruit to visitors. I also live with my dai (older brother), who is 24 years old and extremely quiet (he doesn’t speak to me except to offer me tea). My LCF has informed me that he suffers from depression and is somewhat ostracized by the community. Interestingly, all three of my family members seem to be addicted to tobacco: my aamaa smokes about half a pack a day, while my bubaa and dai dip pretty regularly. At least they’re all pretty good about brushing their teeth.

I also have an older brother and sister whom I haven’t yet met (they live in Kathmandu, and I’ll meet them during Desai) and a 21-year-old sister who has stayed here a few times. She is very outgoing and sarcastic, speaks English quite well, and has an adorable five-month-old daughter (my banji). Finally, the volunteer who stayed with the family last year will also be visiting for Desai. Like me, they consider him a full family member. He and I have spoken a few times, and I’m curious to hear more stories from his months here.