Mysteries of the Universe

Solargraph. Credit: Gregg Kemp

Date: June 23rd, 2009

A recent evening of star-gazing met inevitably with that age-old adage, “Do you believe in God?” This universal but slightly wearisome spiritual inquisition is usually countered through flippant admission to being a recovering Catholic. This time, posed by my Nepali host father, I tried to breach the language and cultural barrier by explaining my equally non-committal philosophy of God as a concept to explain the mysterious operations of energy forces in the universe. I imagine my buwaa was expecting more a simple “yes” or “no” answer. Afterwards, it left me to wonder if I’d have answered yes, would this automatically accompany membership of a faith? If I replied no, am I to be pigeonholed as a dogged atheist? Either way, faced with the vast night sky with its shouts of sheet lightening raging across it, I mysteriously didn’t have the energy to explain my belief in God.

When I was little my neighbor had this Irish blessing on the back of their front door:

May the road rise up to meet you.
May the wind be forever at your back.
May the sun shine warm across your face, and until we meet again,
May God hold you in the palm of His hand.

The simple prayer presented sensual thoughts of travel as a sentient thing; a route that represents and rallies for your safe passage while both protecting and preserving you. This God, once holding a little person (me) over the Earth in His oversized hands I now interpret as a narration, the fortunes or karma, and the intuitive energies we have carried in our cells from the beginning of the universe by virtue of us being here and alive to experience the present and carry it forward. We are created by who knows what? Give it a random name and call it God. How do we find ourselves in any moment we remember to stop and wonder thus? The anonymity of time remains mute. We all like to think ourselves important players in the personal histories we create; we are by virtue of their self-realization. Yet we fling ourselves along, barely conscious of the mysteries unfolding beneath our base perceptions. What tends to be ignored is our participation, known and unknown, in the wider connectivity of all things. I and all those I meet are but a blink of humanity. The animals from which we evolved and the myriad species that existed long before even them are all just a twinkle of a star in the infinity of the universe. Travel brings a closer vantage of these mysteries by constantly reminding me of being part of a bigger picture – if you want, give it a random name and call it history – unfolding.

The secrets of existence, neatly wrapped up in one succinct paragraph. Only problem is, how to translate this into Nepali?

First Impressions

Tibetan stupa in the old part of KTM

Date: June 19th, 2009

I have been in Kathmandu now for just over two weeks, which feels like a lifetime. A disclaimer here on my choice of phrasing: It is usual when one refers to a relatively short period spent somewhere as an era in and of itself that it denotes a negative experience. It is not the case here; merely I feel more has been crammed into this fortnight spent in the cradle of the Himalayas than I realized time passed. In its signification as my first travels to the Asian continent, coming to Nepal has been an awakening, though one more akin to a hazy, groggy, too-early-in-the-morning-bereft-of-coffee sort. In other words, the wealth of new encounters is still tempered by discombobulation.

Last week I was wracked with ‘Kathmandu belly,’ and spent two days sprinting between bed and bathroom, wracked with nausea of the head and queasiness of the bowels; a generic ‘rights of passage’ (no pun intended) for being in Nepal. The rest of the students had by that time arrived, and the week was spent coming to terms with our new situation as adoptees in Nepali families, and adjusting to the pace at which things happen (or don’t) in this country. We have all had to readjust where and with whom we will be interning, due to misunderstandings on both sides. Similar to the attitude found in Caribbean climes, punctuality and a strive to conduct business in a timely manner are scarce in Nepal. “Boli, boli,” they say, meaning “Tomorrow, tomorrow.” So I return to my home stay, where I am living with a mellow older couple (and my host father’s older sister) who occupy the top 2 floors of a house in a central neighborhood of the city. Fed breakfast and dinner, I am fortunately left to my own devices at other times; a blessing compared to some of my fellow New School classmates who are woken up at dawn, and forced to iterate all the movements to their host mothers, many with grown children and deep ennui who relish having something to do and someone to take care of. I am left to sit on the roof garden and gaze at the distant hills, watch old reruns of television shows on my laptop, read and nap.

I find it difficult to spend time wandering about the city, much to the dismay of my New York-er restless feet. However, the heat coupled with belching black exhaust from so many vehicles alongside the complete disregard for the environment means being outside for any extended period of time can be unbearable. To cope I wear a blue bandana around my face, resembling a robust, white, female version of Subcomandante Marcos.

Desperate to escape the cloying confines of the city, last Saturday I joined our group coordinator and all around awesome person Anshu on a motorcycle trip to the hills north of Kathmandu. A devotee of Osho (a philosophical/spiritual leader who was apparently one of the most photographed faces of the 20th century), Anshu travels weekly to a yoga and meditation retreat center about 15 miles from the city, but a million more in terms of the peace and tranquility of the environs. Saturdays at Osho Tapoban Center are open to the public, so I was welcomed to join in on their morning ‘dynamic meditation.’ Curious to participate in any form of Eastern practice, I donned my maroon pashmina, and stood with about 25 others in a wide open hall, and danced to what I am limited to describe as South Asian club music. During dynamic meditation, one is meant to let go of self-conscious behavior and dance to your heart’s content. There were people whooping and yelling and running jumping boogy-ing all over the place, oblivious to their fellow ‘meditators’ and lost in the beat. During the middle of the song, then, the music stops; you are meant to freeze in position and be conscious of your body, your thoughts and your feelings. As you can imagine, this entails the being aware of the strangeness of one’s dance moves, the sweat running down your back, the euphoria of dance in and of itself, and the random thoughts that drift through the mind. This continues for an hour, and upon completion I lay down and conked out. The rest of the day was spent wandering through the grounds, and relishing being able to take a deep breath and smell trees, not trash. I’ve decided that my sanity will be saved by getting out of Kathmandu at least once a week.

Monday I ate two bags of potato chips washed down with a warm Pepsi. This poor diet (sorry Mom) was a necessity caused by the closure of all businesses (bar tiny neighborhood shops) due to a valley-wide bandh; one of frequent strikes called by various factions to ostensibly garner political attention to a cause. I say ostensibly, because it seems that every other day a bandh is called somewhere in Nepal, and little really comes from it other than the debilitation of the daily lives of ordinary Nepali citizens. Nothing moves, no businesses are open, all cars and motorcycles are banned, and thus people cannot work or conduct their day with any sort of normality. Such events assault the appetite if one does not plan for it, but there is one respite, however: in a city teeming with scores of vehicles, it is wonderfully refreshing to be outside and breathe the air without the harassment wrought by the constant traffic.

I joined the throngs on foot and made my way to Jagaran Media Center (JMC), where I will be working for the duration of my time here. JMC, founded in 2000, initiates awareness campaigns regarding Dalit (“untouchable”) issues through the use of different means of media for the promotion and protection of their basic human rights. Dalits, for those unfamiliar with the term, refers to those in the lowest varna or caste in the Hindu hierarchical system. Historically discriminated against, Dalits have been systemically exploited in many forms, including labor, education, religion, land-ownership and political participation. JMC is involved primarily in a Dalit journalist training program to document and disseminate human rights abuses. They run a radio station with correspondents based in almost every district of the country. They also produce the immensely popular television soap opera “Dalan” following three generations of a Dalit family. JMC also serves as a resource center for a variety of books, articles, and research associated with the Dalit movement in Nepal. Given my background in media and my interest in Dalit issues, JMC served as a better fit than where I first believed I would be working (the indigenous human rights lawyers’ NGO named in my last posting).

The Rooftop of the World

Kathmandu from Swayambhunath

Date: June 4th, 2009

Today I feel like I am actually here in Nepal, despite it being day three since my arrival after a 36-hour, surprisingly smooth journey via Doha and Delhi to Kathmandu. Jetlag and a piecemeal sleeping pattern have meant I have had the tranquility borne from waking up to witness sunrise over the Himalayan foothills, coupled with an anxious rabbit-like awareness of dodging 4-, 3- and 2-wheeled traffic. It is no wonder a coherent sense of being has been so elusive until now!

To describe my discombobulation would offer nothing other than a Westerner’s indubitably naïve interpretation of a city and a culture further removed from any place hereforeto traveled. With that in mind, understand I have gladly forsaken logical analysis and wander the streets in childlike abandonment. The Buddhist stupas with their prayer wheels spinning clockwise and the multi-colored prayer flags hung from the center, reaching out and with every breath of wind flipping hopes and desires up to the heavens. The mini Hindu temples on every street corner, ringed by deities including Shiva and Ganesha, their stone figures worn almost away by the constant anointing with vermillion, a tradition limited not only to statues, but even dogs, too, bear the red dot on their furry foreheads. Children stare up at me, a tall white girl with funny clothes. The brave ones catch my eye and say “Hello! How are you?”; basic English that can only be returned with the question itself and a smile. The shy ones stare, but quickly lose interest in this foreigner who probably won’t give them money.

The aural penetration of bells ringing, children yelling, music blaring, craft-sellers hawking their wares, acknowledging you with a “Namaste. Where are you from?” so they can negotiate prices in the appropriate tongue, motorcycles and taxis meep-meeping to let you know they are either coming in front of you, behind you, about to make a turn, or most likely that you are in their way and better scoot or risk a side-swipe. Though warned about such disturbances, I find the crows that wake me in the morning to be the most disconcerting, probably because they land right by my window and nag one another until I awake and shoo them away to the closest rooftop.

In between naps I walk and walk, devouring my map and guidebook before I emerge out into the streets that have no names. I memorize where I am going as everyone here does; the recognition of intersections (chowks) or temples or buildings; an innate sense of direction, too, has bode me well. Roads are narrow and unbelievably fit taxis, bikes and people going in either direction. There are no buildings, other than certain temples, taller than, say, 10 stories. The distinctive wooden edifices are Newari style, the original inhabitants of the valley who have their own religion, language and traditions in addition to Nepal’s. I find the craftsmanship of these doorways and windows intoxicating, and will often stop and gape before the inevitable meep meep reminds me I have a life to live and I’d better get out of the road.

The smell of this city, too, is unique in and of itself: incense is burned and candles made of fat drip in their metallic holders around all the temples and stupas. Tiny storefronts with a small gas cookers fry up pakoras and samosas and sal (rice doughnuts), the cyclists with massive baskets of mangos strapped puzzlingly secure on the back of their bicycles, the sack and sacks of spices and sandalwood snaking their wonderful scents up my nasal passages. The sweetly sick smell of freshly butchered goats; the trash that accumulates on streets corners and in back alleyways, denied pickup by the city and smoldering in acrid half-attempt at being burned. I’ve never experienced such a confusing assault on my senses as I have here.

Yesterday I walked to the UNESCO-designated World Heritage sight Durbar Square; the site of the oldest temples in the Kathmandu. One of the more interesting traditions housed here is that of the goddess Kumari, a young Newari girl of a certain caste who, born under auspicious signs, serves as a kind of oracle or protector of the country until the day she reaches puberty, whereupon she is replaced by a new Kumari. As Durbar Sq. is perhaps the main tourist attraction in Kathmandu, I was snagged by a tout who refused to leave me alone, insisting on explaining the different building and traditions of Hindus and Buddhists through I told him “No Thanks” about 10 times. Though after 20 minutes my refusal of his services went unheeded, I still gave him 250 rupees (almost 3 dollars, well generous) to which he grew upset and alluded to the bad karma I would be served.

This afternoon I put back on my dusty walking shoes and headed west of the city to the famous Swayambhunath, dubbed by the hippies in the 1970s the Monkey Temple. On my way there, a dog approached my with a stumpy hairless tail and a quizzical look on is face; on a street full of strangers I was most definitely the odd one out. As I keep walking, I felt his eyes still on me. Turning for a backward glance, he caught my eye and started howling. I picked up the pace and kept on, but the howling grew louder. Suddenly, all the mutts that had been conked out in the alleys and doorways came to life. Like furry four-legged zombies they staggered out into the streets, and with the information howled to them by their bald butt-ed friend, started barking and trotting after me, much to my concern and the amusement of those watching from the sides. Thanks be to Buddha I was eventually left alone at the temple gate, though I hurried up the steep stone steps with nary another look behind me.

Swayambhunath is one of the most important Buddhist sites in Nepal and a stone inscription dates construction on the site to the 5th century. A once, twice clockwise walk around the stupa adds to the dizzying effect of the sweaty and steep climb, but it is worth it for the breathtaking views of the valley. I watched the storm clouds move over the city, and when they drew near, hurried down the steps on the heels of the infamous (mangy, trash-eating) monkeys and got a short cab-ride back to the hotel just in time for the deluge.

Tomorrow I am going to meet my host organizations where I will be working. For those who are confused to why I am even here in Nepal, in brief I will be joined by 7 others from my school for a 2-month field program. We will be working on various issues, from water rights to the country’s Truth and Reconciliation tribunals (to be determined). Personally interested in issues of identity in the democratic process, I was initially placed with a indigenous peoples' human rights group, but this may be altered in time depending on my own research. For now I am quite happy to go with the flow and develop my dharma.

Thanks for reading and namaste.