In the past 15
months, I’ve spent a lot of time attending a variety of official community events.
Red Cross meetings, HIV/AIDS forums, mental health trainings, women’s rallies, new
building dedications, latrine construction discussions, reconciliation center
roundtables—you name it, I’ve sat through it. Sometimes I’ve been invited by
the organizer, but more often than not I’m just wandering around obliviously
when someone inquires, “Hey, are you going to this program? No? Well come along.”
Typically, every program follows one of two protocols.
1) The Ceremony
Setting: Somewhere outside, a crowd is gathered in a large arc in
front of a colorful cloth tent that has been rented especially for the occasion.
At a podium or table before them stands the master of ceremonies, speaking
through a microphone with the reverb turned all the way up (which makes his
voice resound absurdly like an announcer’s in an enormous arena, when really he
is just addressing a few hundred people in a field). In a row of plastic lawn
chairs behind him sit the more distinguished guests, in whose company I will
eventually, reluctantly, find myself.
I try to maintain a
low profile upon arriving, but it’s only a matter of time before they find
Waldo with his white skin and western dress. Without delay or regard for my
protests, I am ushered up to the stage to sit in a chair with a bunch of people
much more deserving of such special seats. Often they’ll give me a necklace of
flowers, paint my forehead with vermillion, or pin a laminated certificate to
my chest.
Now, the organizer
may begin calling guest speakers. Sometimes, these speeches are the bulk of the
program. A member from each major political party speaks (whether at a school
board election or a child marriage seminar). I am usually invited to speak as
well, to which I’ll sometimes consent.
Each speech begins
with each speaker saying, “Today, we are gathered here together at” (at this
point, each speaker turns around and reads the event’s name off the banner).
From here, the script can vary somewhat, but it is sure to be filled with
certain buzzwords determined by the theme of the event. Some may last for as
long as ten or fifteen minutes. The speakers usually fall into one of four
categories:
·
Those who
pause between every two to five words for emphasis, though they may say nothing
of substance
·
Those who
mutter through the entire speech, whose insights are unfortunately lost in the
hubbub of the crowd
·
Those
who speak softly at first, but gradually grow to such a fervent pitch that you
would think they were rousing a battalion for battle rather than enumerating
the benefits of farmers markets
·
Decent
public speakers
Some time between
the speeches, there is certain to be a “cultural program,” which is always one
or more dances of one of four kinds: a young girl dancing by herself to a
Nepali tune, a teenagers dancing to a Hindi pop song, a group of ethnic
minorities performing a traditional dance, or another traditional dance
involving three men (two of whom are dressed as women).
At the dance’s
conclusion, most of the crowd leaves. The remaining guest speakers say what
they have to say. The dancers receive prizes of a few dollars. Finally, the
master of ceremonies expresses his thanks and brings the ceremony to a close.
2) The Seminar
Setting: The assembly room of the village development committee
building, the health center, or a school gradually fills with people arriving between
an hour and an hour and a half after the designated starting time. The
participants sit on plastic lawn chairs arranged in a half circle, with all the
men on one side and all the women (and myself) on the other. If there are not
enough chairs, some of the women sit on the floor. Everyone receives a pen and
notebook, which will remain unopened on laps for the duration of the training.
A register circulates to account for our attendance.
Approximately two
hours after the scheduled time, when a sufficient number of participants have
taken their seats and begun complaining about the delay (despite having arrived
many minutes late themselves), the training begins with the official opening,
in which the organizer expresses it his or her pleasure to start the event.
Next, someone
delivers the welcome remarks, in which everyone is individually recognized for
their presence. At a seminar this past week, the speaker personally
acknowledged the president of the planning committee, the secretary of the
village development committee, the representative of the hospital, the Maoist
party representative, the Nepali Congress representative, the Marxist-Leninist
party representative, officials from two NGOs, the president of the
reconciliation committee, the president of the women’s cooperative, the
president of the disabled persons committee, the president of the youth
network, as well as mothers, fathers, older brothers, younger brothers, older
sisters, younger sisters, children, our foreign friend (because I usually get a
shout-out), and other attendees from wards one through nine. Lest no one feel
unwelcomed.
Then come the
participant introductions. Each person rises and states their name, village,
and title. Despite introducing myself as “Ben Wagner, Peace Corps volunteer,”
later I will still be referred to as “our foreign friend”.
There may now be an
opportunity for a few guest speeches, which proceed as described previously.
By now at least an
hour has gone by, and it is finally time to introduce the chief business of the
event. Sometimes everything goes without a hitch, with the presenter conducting
the lesson exactly as planned. There are always small disruptions, of course.
Every so often, a cell phone rings and is answered, its owner carrying out a
prolonged conversation that goes something like, “No, I’m in a meeting right
now… Yes, very good, but I’m in a meeting… Oh, I did that this morning. Yes, I
already told him. Ok, I have to go now. What? Why? What does it matter? Next
week is fine…” A baby begins crying; to placate it, its mother pulls out her
breast. Strangers spontaneously enter, greet everyone with a “Namaste,” sit for
a few minutes, and leave.
But things can get
interesting. A few minutes in, someone may mistake the lecture for a discussion
and decide it’s a good time to share his or her personal views on the matter at
hand. Someone else will vehemently disagree. Before long, half the room is
engaged in an impassioned debate, and the other half is completely tuned out.
The facilitator struggles to refocus, but there is no reconciling such ardor
and apathy.
Just then, the
snack arrives. The composition of the snack is a topic upon which everyone can
agree: eggs and samosas are superior to chow mein or biscuits (though the
latter have the advantage that they can be pocketed for later consumption).
Steaming milk tea is poured into cheap plastic cups, which warp with the hot
liquid.
After the snack, little
is left to be said. After the discussion wraps up, somebody thanks everyone for
attending and announces that the program has come to a close. The participants
prepare to leave, but not until they’ve collected their few dollars of
“allowance” for attending.
I
bike home, wondering why I once again spent an entire day at another public
program. At least the snack was decent.
