Animal Farm

Some of you may be surprised to learn that I became a vegetarian a few weeks before coming to Nepal. For me, Jonathan Safran Foer’s book Eating Animals was the straw that (humanely, I hope) broke the camel’s back, topping off a proverbial haystack that included a vegetarian mother and sister, high cholesterol, a few good food films (particularly Food, Inc. and The Future of Food), and the most liberally liberal of liberal arts educations (which has also made possible the construction of obfuscated run-on sentences based on overstretched rhetorical expressions, like this one). But I digress. The time to quit meat, I figured, could not be better. Why would I want to eat meat in Nepal?

Some more of you may be surprised to learn that I have become an omnivore again. It wasn’t that I missed the taste, or that I got tired of explaining why I was a vegetarian. It’s that my rationale for not eating meat doesn’t hold true in Nepal. It’s tempting to think that that all meat is equal, but some meat is more equal than others.

My real problem with American meat has to do with factory farming. Some of the following is only relevant to either ruminant or poultry farming, but much of it applies to both. A few large companies dominate these industries, receiving subsidies that artificially depress prices and increase consumption. Animals are packed into dark, dirty spaces with many other occupants, which breeds violence and disease. Having been bred to grow unnaturally quickly, many develop health problems. They are fed a diet of corn and other fodder unsuitable to their digestive systems and nutritional needs; a good amount of America’s arable land is used to grow this food, which feeds animals rather than people. On such a large scale, these animals create enormous amounts of waste, some of which pollutes waterways and has various downstream effects. After a sufficiently miserable life, animals face a frightening and sometimes ineffective slaughter. Processing is unsanitary, with many parts of many animals mixing together. All of the above is invisible to American consumers, who need only select their preferred package from a supermarket isle or appetizing item off a restaurant menu. They (i.e. you) then cook and eat this meat in inappropriately large portions at two or three meals a day, which, in addition to fueling the problems described above, has contributed to the rise of a whole array of health problems. In short, everyone suffers—animals, the environment, farmers, and us. I have separate issues with large-scale fish farming, primarily the quantity and diversity of animals that needlessly die when trawling for a particular variety.

That’s the reality of meat in modern America, but it didn’t used to be this way. In Nepal and most other parts of the world, meat is raised locally, which often means literally from your own back yard. Animals live outside most of the day, eating grass that grows either wildly or in the fields between planting seasons. Their waste is used as fertilizer for fields or fuel for stoves. Animals are killed in broad daylight with a well-placed machete chop to the neck, which, given the vacant expression on the dead animal’s face, it never saw coming. Meat is expensive (as much as 800 rupees for a kilo of goat meat, with bones), so Nepalis don’t eat it very often; my relatively wealthy, meatloving family still only eats it once or twice a week. When they do eat meat, the serving sizes are far more reasonable. Furthermore, the lack of a formal industry makes raising livestock an expensive investment but an excellent way for rural Nepali families to earn additional income.

Aside from some hygienic issues with meat storage and preparation, the system here is all-around better. There’s actually not much one could conceivably be opposed to. I was beginning to feel like a hypocrite encouraging pregnant mothers to eat more meat when I too am likely suffering from iron and protein deficiencies, or talking with farmers about the benefits of small-scale goat farming as a opponent to raising livestock. In the context of Nepal, eating meat may actually be more in line with my values than not. So one day, when my host brother showed up with a big plastic bag of venison, I said to hell with it. In one sense, watching an animal’s beheading, cleaning, and dismemberment is a far more graphic and gross way to meet your meat. In another, what’s maybe more disturbing is our aloofness from the process of how animals become food in America. Shielding your eyes from hard realities doesn’t make them go away—it only permits the existence of greater wrongs.

A Clash of Clothings

There is an interesting collision of fashions taking place in Nepal. This peaceful revolution takes its shape in a visible progression across geography (urban areas being the earliest adaptors), genders (men are more modernized), and generations, from the elders in traditional garb down to the youth in western wear, with the rest falling somewhere in between. The following are my observations from living in the districts of Sindupalchuk and Dang, and they may not be representative of trends across all of Nepal.

The two traditional outfits for women are the kurta surwal and the sari. The kurta is a short-sleeved, tight-fitting top; the surwal its matching baggy pants. The formal female garb is the sari, a long cotton or silk wrap that takes an expert to tie. Saris are worn with a cholo, a sort of bodice that ties above the belly button. Kurtas, saris, and cholos come in a variety of patterns and colors, serving as casual and formal wear. Some women prefer the meksi, a floral-patterned romper more conducive to field work. Women may also wear shawls wrapped around their shoulders or waist. It may be seen as indecent for a woman to show her shoulders or legs, yet plunging necklines and exposed stomachs are acceptable and commonplace.

Male traditional attire is the daura surwal, which consists of a long monotone shirt that ties across the chest with a series of strings, matching-colored pants loose at the waste and tight at the calves, and a vest of grey or black. Without the vest, the wearer looks much like a contestant on Iron Chef. Some men opt for the less-restricting lungi, a sort of man-skirt. Male office dress is fairly western: dress shoes, slacks, and a sweater, vest, or sports coat over a button down shirt. The topi, the traditional male cap, comes in two varieties: checkered with a wide array of multicolored patterns, or jet-black. The topi has fallen out of style with the younger generation, whose preferred headgear is bandanas, baseball caps, and winter hats.

Some (mostly of older stock) don’t wear underwear or bras, which is something you always find out the hard way. Babies are often bottomless, or have their pants sagged so low that they may as well be. Villagers may wear an outfit until it gets dirty, since it’s a hassle to do laundry by hand (sometimes I feel self-conscious wearing a different shirt each day of the week). Pajamas are not very popular; for most Nepalis around here, sleepwear is their clothes from the previous day.

Really any closed-toed shoes are appropriate for most formal occasions. Nepalis mostly wear plastic flip-flops in their day-to-day, and Crocs are still very much in style. People also wear socks when the weather is “cold,” which for people in my village means any temperature below 60 degrees Fahrenheit. One of the most common questions I’m asked (I may post a list of these soon) is how I’m not cold. During slow times at the health center, we usually sit out in the sun: the staff wrapped in their down jackets and scarves; I content in my polo shirt until I get too warm and have to go inside.

Some stores sell premade clothing (like in the U.S.), but (unlike in the U.S.) this tends to be more expensive than having your clothes custom-made. Nepalis typically purchase cloth from one store and take it to a tailor, who takes their measurements and says “come back in a week” when s/he really means “come back in a week and I’ll tell you to come back in another week.” Despite this minor inconvenience, the freedom and suitability that tailoring affords has won me over. No more shuffling through clothing racks for that shirt designed just for you and the millions of other men of similar stature; no more hassle of trying to locate mediums that run a little large or larges that run a little medium. The two dress shirts I’ve had tailored in Nepal are some of the best-fitting clothes I’ve ever owned, each costing under $5 for the fabric and sewing.

But premade clothing is where much of the fun comes in. Like in many countries, the allure of American culture has made clothing with English writing very trendy in Nepal. Perhaps some things are lost in translation? As a gift for Tihaar, I received this peculiarity:

Is this combination of bizarre words and imagery truly random, or is this design an enigma with underlying meaning? My family actually gave me a choice between this and two other shirts, and this was the least weird option.

Western brand names are relatively expensive. With all the knockoffs, typos, and other oddities, however, one starts to wonder if many of the originals even exist here. A few examples: the mustard-colored baseball shirt supporting the “New York Massachubatts,” which might make a Yankee or Red Sox fan cringe. The California Clippers flat-brimmed hat a secretary wore to a meeting in the district health office. Numerous shirts bearing the name of Kevin Klein. The American flag hat with all the colors switched around, which one of our language teachers gave a volunteer as a joke.

Because many Nepalis own fewer clothes and don’t change them often, it’s sometimes possible to describe people by what they typically wear, like the characters of a TV cartoon (think Doug or Hey Arnold). There’s the old man in the leather jacket with the navy patches; the woman in the pink wool sweater; the boy in the black and red striped polo shirt. My supervisor’s outfit of choice is a puffy white North Face coat, white slacks, and one of those white flat-topped caps that Paris Hilton might wear (or have worn. Is she still alive?). One day, I met a man wearing rubber camo boots, track pants, a pink denim jacket, and a hood. In the cold weather, hoods are a preferred form of headwear, but they are often worn detached from their original jacket, making for an odd-fitting hat with a zipper at the bottom. Why don’t aren’t the hoods worn with the jackets they came with? And where are all of these hoodless jackets? If only I had the language skills to investigate.

Miscellaneous Spontaneous

In a departure from my usual attempt to be systematic and thematic, the following is a random collection of some of the more hilarious, exciting, fortuitous, strange, and memorable highlights from my first month and a half in Dang:

-Visiting the boarding school for the first time, I asked a group of men for directions.  An extremely drunk man staggered up to me, pulled me close, and kissed me on the cheek. He was so grateful that I was there, he said, that he would be my guide for the rest of the day. He wouldn’t take no for an answer, so we visited each classroom of the school together: I briefly introducing myself and explaining my role in the community; he commanding the children to “stand up”, “say thank you”, and “try again” (all said in English). Oddly, the teachers did nothing about this inebriated man berating their students. For the next two hours, this man physically dragged me along, his hand often painfully clutching mine, and forced me to drink cup after cup of warm milk. Eventually he asked that I teach him English so that he could go to America and work as a servant for my family. One of the hospital staff later told me he could visibly see how fed up I was by the whole encounter
-Celebrated a wedding in my village, with much singing, dancing, drinking and eating

-Spent nearly two hours making a beautiful community map with the 7^th graders at the boarding school

-Attended the 7^th graders’ Nepali language and culture class, and was totally lost the entire time

-Began regularly playing volleyball with the only girls’ volleyball team in the district, which happens to practice ten minutes from my house

-Clarified the definition of the word “virgin” to the volleyball coach, who thought it meant “unmarried woman”

-Made friends with a guy my age who’s moving to New York next year
-Wandered into the forest one morning with a few guys to cut down trees to decorate a shrine for a pujaa

-Watched and translated an evangelical Christian television program with some coworkers

-Watched (almost in slow-motion) a bundle of sticks fall off the roof of a bus and clobber a woman in the head. She walked away apparently unscathed
-Got a hands-on training from a local beekeeper, which included my removing frames full of bees from a swarming hive

-Shared a taxi seat with a very talkative elderly life insurance salesman, who now visits my health center every week requesting that I teach him beekeeping and pushing life insurance plans on the health center staff. The other day, he called me at 5:21 in the morning (I just let it ring)

-Observed a man having his stitches removed after a vasectomy, while the health worker’s five-year old son sat nearby chewing on a cardboard box

-Facilitated my first nutrition training with nine pregnant mothers, and saw their understanding transform right before my eyes. This might be have been my most gratifying experience yet

-Sat in on the counseling session of a man with a penchant for destroying Hindu temples. A few days later, happened to ride in a taxi with him

-In this same taxi, shared the driver’s seat of a crowded taxi with the driver, who had to reach over my legs to shift gears. If that wasn’t unsettling enough, when he wasn’t searching for the gear stick, the baby sitting on my other side (the temple-destroyer’s child) was constantly pulling on it. He later peed on me (the baby, not the driver)

-Declined, as politely as possible, boxing lessons from an aggressive Nepali guy

-Met a Nepali man who lived in Israel for four years and now owns a clothing store in Nepalgunj

-Had tea with an Indian guy who, following a messy divorce with his wife, moved to Nepal with his son to work in development
-Stumbled upon a group of dancing Tharu women who were stopping vehicles in the road and demanding that they pay in order to pass

-Explained to a Nepali woman why exporting rhinoceros and elephant horns back to friends in the U.S. is a bad idea (on oh so many levels)

-Did my laundry and bathed in a stream. Walking back, dropped the washbasin and had to wash half my clothes again

-Developed some pretty impressive blisters on my hands, which has become the talk of the town, from digging my garden. Eating hot, spicy food when you have open wounds on your hands is quite painful

-Cut down a forty-foot-tall bamboo stalk to make my nursery

-Planted cucumbers with my twelve-year old neighbor, while we took turns singing Nepali and English songs

-Taught my neighbor and five-year old nephew the “Cotton Eye Joe”

-Met a young Nepali guy living in my village who studied business in London and is just starting a small-scale goat farming operation

-Found a fish swimming in the water I use to clean my toothbrush and wash my face

-Danced barefoot in the straw in the dark with a drunk uncle during a massive puja celebration
-Got a puppy! My family gave me the honor of naming him, but after I chose the name Coco (which means “who” in Nepali), they renamed him Rocky. He looks like a miniature badger

A Day in the Life

For me, Sunday, January 19 was nothing out of the ordinary, so it makes for a pretty good illustration of my average day in Shreegaun.

I awoke at 7:01 to the thin ray of sunlight that streams through the window and hits my face at around this same time each morning. The cold air discouraged me from leaving my warm bed, but remembering that I’d resolved to call my grandmother, I darted to my desk for my phone. I dialed her number and had a very nice but short chat (she always keeps them brief, as if she’s afraid she’s taking up too much of my time. But I’m never in a rush to finish talking with you, Omi!). Still in bed, I reached for my computer and resumed reading an electronic version of H.G. Wells’ The Time Machine. At 7:52, my host brother’s wife appeared in the doorway with a piece of freshly cooked roti and a cup of steaming hot milk. A few minutes later my cell phone rang, another Peace Corps volunteer calling to check in and discuss meeting up in a few days. After coming to a good pausing place in my book, I finally built up the motivation to move from my bed to my desk. I checked my calendar and set to updating the categorized English-Nepali dictionary, which I’ve been making to aid in my day-to-day conversations. Just before 9AM, my host mother brought me my morning milk tea. Then my sister instructed me to watch our puppy, Rocky, who promptly pooped in front of my door. Nevertheless, I played with him for a few minutes. Having finished my tea, I headed outside to use the bathroom, which consists of a hole in the ground and a bucket of water in a little concrete cubicle. Next I checked on my garden, pleased to see the potatoes sprouts thriving and the frail tendrils of radishes just beginning to appear.

I worked on my dictionary until 9:40, when the sun had burned off enough mist to make a shower tolerable. Grabbing my bucket and a plastic container, I made my way to the concrete well just beyond our neighbors’ home. After hauling up three jugs of water, I stripped down to my boxers and braved the cool air and the lukewarm water that provided some relief. Just then, a passing taxi broke down on the road nearby. Its occupants exited the jeep to stretch their legs, glancing none too subtly at the soapy white guy in his underwear sixty feet away. I hurriedly washed and toweled off, scurrying back into my warmer room for some dry clothes. Shortly after dressing, I was called to breakfast: steamed rice, lentil curry, cauliflower and potato curry, and spicy tomato chutney; heavy on the cilantro—my favorite twice-a-day meal (but really, I love it. I asked for more of everything). I brushed my teeth, grabbed my bag, filled my water bottle from the filter, said goodbye to my family, and strode down the path to the health center.

I arrived forty-two minutes after the center’s 10AM opening time, but was the fourth of the ten or fifteen staff scheduled to work that day (it’s often hard to tell who’s working a shift and who’s just stopping in). Greeting each person with a “Namaste” and settling down in a plastic lawn chair, I began chatting with the social counselor and a health worker. Now the sun shined warmly and the air was less brisk. Eagles circled over the nearby forest. After about an hour of sitting, one of the female health volunteers arrived. She had invited me to her mothers’ group meeting two days before, but as I’d been making my way to the meeting I met another female health volunteer, who erroneously told me the meeting was another day. I now apologized to the female health volunteer for the mix-up, promising I’d come the following month. Together, we walked to the village development committee office in the center of town for the monthly women’s cooperative meeting. On the way, we stopped at a woman’s house, where I spent some time admiring their kitchen garden in the backyard. The homeowner, the secretary of the women’s cooperative, asked me if I might teach her some of the techniques I’d used in my own garden. I said sure and asked her about her farmers’ group, and together we set off towards the meeting place.

Three hours later, the women’s meeting still hadn’t started. A small chorus of hungry goats bleated impatiently for their midday meal. I began feeling sunburnt. Sitting with a few of the women, I fielded questions about American weather, geography, food, and more. Soon we got talking about my work, and inevitably the subject of gender inequality came up. Absorbed in what I was saying, a mother neglected to watch her two-year old daughter, who fell the short distance from the building’s raised concrete floor onto the rocks below, and promptly burst into tears. Eventually, the women got so tired of waiting for the committee to finish its business (accounting and discussing) that they left for home. Still, I managed to convince about twelve of them to stay for a short discussion. I asked about women’s major problems and needs in the community, the foremost of which they said were irrigation, health, and unemployment. As I probed deeper into their thoughts on the specifics, causes, and potential solutions, they became more vocal, engaged, and earnest. We hashed out a few ideas for potential projects. One of them invited me to visit her home the following day. Although I hadn’t been able to get the entire group’s input, I felt like it was a success. I left with a better understanding of their perception of the problems, and they with a better conception of how I might be of assistance.

Now it was around 3:45PM, and I went to the neighboring bazaar to kill time before volleyball practice. The owners of the electronics store waved me over, and we got talking about the differences between Nepali and American education and employment opportunities. As we chatted, boys and girls emerged in their crisp sky blue uniforms from the government school. A herd of cattle passed and I watched as a bull mounted one of the females, and she, unenthused, attempted to shake him by running ahead while he clung to her back. Over time, it became very clear that one of shop owners, who had studied education, was desperate for a job, as he kept asking that I ask my boss whether there were any openings in the Peace Corps. Luckily, at 4:30 some girls showed up with a bag of volleyballs, which I used as an excuse to take my leave.

I removed my sweater and slacks to play in the t-shirt and shorts I had on underneath. After about an hour of warming up, the coach called the girls over to conduct some sort of high jump, while the less disciplined boys took over the net. Just then my phone rang—another Peace Corps volunteer calling to catch up. As it was growing dark, the coach concluded the practice and we set out for our homes. I made my way back through the bazar, kids shouting “hi,” “Namaste,” “how are you,” and “see you tomorrow” as I passed.

After a long phone conversation with my friend, I was called to dinner. At the same time, my health center’s new doctor, who that very day had moved into a room in my neighbors’ house, appeared. Fluent in English, he studied medicine in Bangladesh and spent the last year working in a hospital in the district capital of Dang. Over dinner (the exact same as I ate in the morning, but equally delicious; I asked for seconds again) and then over the glowing embers of a dying fire, we discussed medicine, travel, and sports. He asked me to explain the concept of “strikes” in baseball, and then retired to his room for the night. Then I wrote this post, turned out the light, and promptly fell asleep, contemplating the similarities and differences tomorrow will bring.