A Public Affair

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.