Ritual Bathing

On the full moon of Saun high caste Hindus replace their Janai - a sacred thread placed around the body - and bathe, a festival known as Janai Purnima. The main place of pilgrimage during Nepal is called Gosainkund, deep in the mountains to the north of Kathmandu. Legend has it that Shiva, one of the trinity of Hindu gods, drank poisoned water to save the world, and created a crater with his trident before spitting out the poisoned water to form the lakes. So every year thousands of faithful make their way up to the mountains to effectively bathe in Shiva's spit. Several people die visiting the lakes as it is around 4500m high, an altitude where acute mountain sickness can kick in.

Also on this day everyone is given raksha bandhan, a yellow and orange protective band that is tied around the wrist. This is then worn until Tihar (Diwali) where it is tied to the tail of a cow. From India, a tradition has emerged that sisters tie another more decorative raksha on their brothers, giving them further protection. The brother in turn gives the sister a present, usually money.


My raksha (notice the tan/recovering sunburn)
During this time, there is a big fair, or jatra, in Patan in the grounds of Kumbeshwor Mandir - temple. So I went down to have a look with Buwa, Aama and Bhanja. As we approached Patan Durbar Square, the large number of people milling about the UNESCO world heritage site was an indication of what was to come. We were still a good 5 minutes walk from the mandir when the crowd got so thick it became like swimming through people. So, I grabbed Bhanja's hand and started to swim. I floated on a sea of Nepalis, using my height advantage to good effect, and making sure Bhanja was still in tow we reached to the mandir complex.

On the surrounding streets there were people selling offerings to give at the temple, dark skinned Indians selling Chinese tat, bahuun priests sitting cross-legged on the ground tying rakshas on people, giving them a tika and blessing for a few rupees. Stood out from the crowd were a handful of foreigners trying to get a grasp of the situation. As we circumnavigated the complex, there was music, dancing and preaching, causing crowds to form circles, blocking the pathway through.

Outside Kumbeshwor are several public water tanks where people bathe during Janai Purnima, an alternative to the gruelling trek to Gosainkund. In these, people were washing the dirt away, and several young boys were diving and splashing about. Something that Bhanja had said earlier came to mind, that this was his favourite festival after Dasain and Tihar - the Christmas of the Nepali Hindu year. I could see why now. Water, food, parties and a day off school - what more does a eight-year old boy want?

I wanted to go in. Mostly out of tourist nosiness/curiosity, but it seemed quite a big party was inside. I looked down at Bhanja. He obviously wasn't enjoying this as much as I was. The crowd was knocking him about a lot, stepping on his feet and generally making life unpleasantly irritating. He was also rather tired, a fact I noticed by the amount he had started to pull on my hand as we walked. I turned to try and find Aama and Buwa, finding them after a minute of searching heads. Aama didn't look to happy either. I resigned myself that we weren't going to go in. I tried to console myself that I probably wouldn't be allowed in, not being a Hindu. However, the scant consolation was swiftly broken by 3 or 4 foreigners I spotted inside the temple posing for photographs with the sadhus. So we completed our circumambulation and headed home. For me, an enjoyable little walk.

We've still been flying kites, and I managed to get it up in the air finally. After 2 or 3 minutes of good control, I panicked as the kite plunged towards the nearby army barracks, and had to be rescued by a quick thinking Achut.


Bhanja flying the kite
We had a very beautiful moon rise the other day, so I thought I would show you that as well.


The moon rise over Lalitpur
And just to mention that not only is Nepal looking at 2.5 million starving people in the west of country, the same as the population of Kathmandu, but now floods have ravaged the south east, with monsoon rains causing a large river to burst its banks. Reports vary on how many people are actually affected by this, but it easily in the tens of thousands. (A recent newspaper headline in one of the English dailies said "Flood aid continues to pour in". Oh, the choice of words...). Things aren't getting any easier for the Nepali. The new government has a lot to contend with.

SAM

Ukaalo ra Oraalo - Uphill and Down-dale - Part 2

I opened my eyes. In the room was Bidro's dad, a young man in his twenties (Bidro's youngest brother), a boy of about 18, a girl of maybe 12, along with a child (Bidro's nephew). All were staring at me - a mound of redness and perspiration. On the bed next to me also in a mass of sweat I was surprised, and rather glad, to see Achut and Bidro. Bidro's dad looked as if he had been out on a Sunday afternoon walk. I was pointed towards the window, a breeze was blowing in from here, and I moved to sit there, and for the first time took in where we had arrived. It was absolutely amazing. Outside was a land of green: maize, banana plants, rice paddies, ginger, okra, coffee trees, pumpkins, cucumbers, forests. At the bottom of the valley the Bagmati flowed. The green hill-scape was scarred with grey and brown intermittent landslides, though a lot less than in the Annapurna region due to better forestry management. Around us, insects screeched and clicked, the family goat was bleating - oblivious to its impending slaughter for Dasain - and the gentle sound of the wind rushing through the trees. Surely this was paradise.



The view from the window
For the rest of the evening, I remained in a state of semiconsciousness. All the things that happened occurred around me. People talked. Visitors came and went. I think we ate. And I finally succumbed to the sleep that was enveloping me.

I woke in the morning. My back end was going to explode. I rushed to the toilet. The news was not good. When I walked to the tap to wash afterwards, everyone saw me and knew. After a brief bite to eat, we went down to see the micro-hydro project. As we walked down to the hut, I noticed that most of the people here were not the standard Hindu castes. Instead they were Tamangs, of Tibetan descent. According to Bidro, about 90% of the people in the surrounding areas were Tamang, with the rest being the Hindu castes. (According to my guidebook, 1 in 5 Nepalis are Tamangs as well, making them the largest ethnic minority in Nepal). I had met some Tamangs in the Terai before, but this was their original homeland before moving out of the crowded hills for the new farming land created by the government in the Terai in the 1950s.



A Tamang girl

A pair of Tamang boys
We walked down through the fields, and began to be followed by some boys in their school uniform. They said the school was shut for the next week, but didn't seem to really know why. We reached a small stone hut in one terrace, Bidro went to the edge of the terrace and shouted. After 10 seconds a reply came. Bidro made his reply and came back up. Someone was coming up with the key. Shouting was the traditional way to talk in the hills I found. As you walked around and spotted someone you knew within a mile of you, you shouted at them to say hello. After 5 minutes, a head appeared through the paddy terracing, soon to be accompanied by a body, and brandishing a key.

As Bidro opened the door we walked in to a room of about 6 ft square. It seemed almost empty. On the back wall was some electrical distribution gadgetry, and through the wall the 2 inch poly-pipe appeared. This led down to a small converging nozzle and a pressure gauge connected to a blue box. The blue box, located in the middle of the room, was where the turbine was housed, and a 2.5 kW motor cum generator stood on top with a wire leading to the back wall and the distribution board. I have to say, I was slightly disappointed. I don't know quite what I expected, but it wasn't this. I suppose I had thought there would be a mini-dam and lake with a complex system of gates and valves controlling the water. But no. All very simple. And perfect for what they needed. A simple design solution.



The (perfect if slightly disappointing) micro-hydro project
Bidro explained to me about the project. It cost 300,000 Nepali rupees (NPR), about £2,500 - the initial quote was 500,000 NPR. Bidro sourced all the equipment himself and then arranged it to be transported, managing to save the project money. The community runs the project - the 12 households that it serves - and pays 30 NPR each for its upkeep. Compare this to if the national grid was put to the area, By a conservative estimate for the hill region, it is £60,000 per km of electrification. The supply is neither reliable or safe, subject to numerous power cuts and thieves stealing the valuable cable. Also, for the same electricity as provided by the micro-hydro project, the households would be expected to pay at least 200 NPR per month for the supply, a price that most of the families just could not afford. It is true that the micro-hydro line provides only 2.5 kW for all 12 houses, and is only used for lighting, but this is a great step forward. Previously, either batteries, kerosene or fire provided light. Batteries and kerosene required to be brought down from the market an hour up the hillside, and with the increase in oil and fuel costs, both were beginning to become only available to the richest families in the area. Using the micro-hydro project and energy saving lights, which are guaranteed for a year and cost a few hundred rupees, life has changed in the village.

Paradise it may be, but life is hard. The only industry here is farming. Over the many years, families here have grown and gradually terraced the land all the way up the hillside to provide enough food and income for the ever expanding families. This is a major problem suffered by many Nepali families. For a family of multiple sons, when the father of the family dies, or cannot support himself any more, the sons divide up the land equally - normally. So, for land that was able to support one family now has to support many families, and it just isn't able to. As the generations pass, this problem gets worse and worse. So many Nepalis move away, some to the city, some abroad. For example, in Bidro's family there are 7 sons and no daughters. This would mean that the land would have to be divided into 7 and support each family, so Bidro and five of his brothers have left the village, leaving the youngest to tend the land with his father. They now live all across the world, from America to the UAE, a story that is repeated in families across Nepal. For those families that remain in this village, their children can go to the local government run school, though this is an hour away up the hill. However, many just can't go as their parents could not afford them to go. The children are needed to look after the goats, pick weeds and other chores around the house and farm.

After some food, and another rather painful visit to the toilet, we went for a shower. This was no ordinary shower though. We walked for 20 minutes up the hill and reached a waterfall, then as best we could, recreated the Herbal Essences advert. What they don't show in the advert though is how cold the water is, and how slippery the rocks are, and how to deal with peeping toms that are always a problem. I think we did an admirable job in imitation, although the advertising agency still haven't called. After being pummelled by water plunging 3 or 4 metres I was becoming relaxed, and I felt what I hadn't for the last 24 hours. Good.

As we returned from the shower we stopped in at a house for some tea and I met a man who was 96 years old. He asked me the usual questions: How old was I? Was I married? What was my caste? He told me that he had lived through the reigns of 5 Kings of Nepal. He had also lived through the most turbulent times in Nepali history since the unification in the 1700s: the 1951 revolution, the two democracy movements in 1990 and 2006 and now the new Federal Republic of Nepal. I looked around and wondered how much had changed in the village over that time. My guess would be very little.

Returning to the house, more visitors had arrived, and proceeded to sit and stare at me. We ate, and I visited the toilet for a 3rd time. At that point the lights went out. Bidro grabbed a torch and ran up the hill saying something about the intake being blocked. 20 minutes later, light returned, and soon after Bidro did. The intake for the turbine was near where we had showered earlier, and had a stone stuck in it. Once this was removed everything was fine. This was the beauty of the project, very little can go wrong with it. And if anything does, then it is usually easily fixed.

Bidro gave me a Nepali version of Immodium, so that I wouldn't need to go to the toilet overnight. Unfortunately it didn't work, and after 2 visits during the night, I was feeling quite angry. Why do I always have to ruin things with being sick? I lay in my bed and stewed in my own self-pity and anger.

The next morning, things were slightly better. Bidro asked if I was up for a short walk, and not wanting to show any further weakness, said yes. We walked down the hill, past the micro-hydro project, and through the recently planted rice paddies. People were in them picking out the weeds by hand, the green rice plants still as vibrant as ever. In a small shack, the falling water was also being used to turn mill-stones, grinding maize and other crops into powder, these little shacks being run by small boys. As we descended, a nasty smell invaded our nostrils. Even here, many miles downstream of Kathmandu and diluted from the mountain rivers, the Bagmati river reeks.


The rice paddies
We walked along the river bed, reminiscent of the beaches in Cornwall and made our way through more rice paddies to another village. Bidro announced that he would like to build another micro-hydro project for these people, around 20 households. It would cost between 1 to 1.5 million NPR, £10,000 or so. However, Bidro was finding the same problems as we were, no-one wanted to support a small project.


A village in the river valley
This short walk was turning out to be a bit a bit longer than I thought. After an hour and a half of walking downhill and through the fields we sat down outside a house, where a girl brought us some water. Then we turned right around and walked back again. Along through the fields of rice, stopping at a couple of houses for Bidro to say hello to people he knew and then making our way back up the hill. By the time I reached the top, I was once again ready to die. This time however, I had the added problem that I forgot to put my suncream on, so my arms resembled highly coloured coconut ice. Excellent.

In the afternoon I lay down and watched the world through the window and thought about things. Nepal may only be 12 hours flight from the UK, but in reality it is worlds apart. This was not the world I lived in. The world I lived in was, relatively, easy. I just couldn't reconcile how I lived to how these people lived. And it wasn't just that. What I did affected these people. The more oil I burnt, food I ate, pollution I created, caused life to be harder for them. For the rest of the evening I sat in quiet contemplation. I watched the food being cooked on the wood stove in the kitchen, whose ceiling was covered in soot from the fire. I saw Bidro's father carrying nearly 50 kilos of grass he cut on his back to feed the buffaloes. I watched the two children playing, wondering what kind of life they would lead. Would they stay and farm like their father, or would they go off into the world and never return?

That night, I didn't sleep. I couldn't. I was worried about the next day, when we were going to walk back to catch the bus. I was worried about this village, would life be able to go on in this age of electrification, hi-tech communication, consumerism, environmental destruction and the erosion of traditional values - values which I believed many to be discriminatory, but had held the communities together over the past hundreds of years. And then I thought about the old man I had met. He had lived through so much, and was still here. Maybe there was still hope. And with a slightly happier thought I closed my eyes.

Seconds later I was raised from my rest by a tapping on the door. Bidro, as promised, there to wake us up. We needed to leave early in the morning to miss the sun and ensure we arrived at the bus stop in time to catch the bus. We said our goodbyes and headed off. I was feeling a lot better. Part of me wished I didn't, so we could stay a few more days. But I knew two things: Bidro had work to do, and Achut really wanted to go back - he was never very good at being away from home. We headed out the same way we came, through the irrigation channel, crossing the river in the most inappropriate of places, adding more thorns to my still painful hands. Instead of following the larger road we took a small path that seemed to scale the side of a rather high hill. Bidro assured me that this was going to be an easier route than the one we took before. As we set out climbing, I was sceptical, but what could I do. After 30 minutes of climbing, we stopped in a village and I once again collapsed in a ball of sweat. However, I felt fine. Tired, hot - yes - but fine.

As I sat down I felt a small wriggling in my shoes. I pulled back my sock and saw three leeches attached to my ankle. I must have picked them up in the irrigation channel. I was surprised how small they were, they look rather cute almost. Not like the huge ones I had seen in nature programmes and films. I let them feed for a while, Bidro had a look and then proceeded to pluck them of, throwing them in the dirt. I watched them make their escape. Soon after I noticed another 3 crawling along the ground, they must have attached themselves to my shoes without managing to get a feed. The size difference to those that had eaten was incredible, the fed leeches were at least 3 times the size of their starving counterparts. And these fed leeches hadn't had their fill yet, as they hadn't dropped off on their own free will.

The road was straight and level, following the shape of the hill until we reached the point where we needed to descend to the bridge across the Bagmati, before climbing again to the bus stop. Here there was no bus. The thought crossed my mind, had the truck that had been broken before been fixed yet? Would we have to walk all the way to meet the bus? I hoped not, the sun was out again in full force, and my sunburn from the previous day had begun to ache already. We went to the shop and enquired to the bus. Yes, it had arrived the day before. It would leave today at 11am. It was now 9 o'clock, so we found some shelter from the sun and waited. I looked in my sock again, and noticed another pair of leeches, these had obviously had a good feed as they were very fat and dropped off with ease. After some time, the bus arrived, passengers and goods disembarked, we climbed aboard and were heading back to Kathmandu. On the way back we passed the landslide where 11 people died recently, everyone holding their breath again, and was pointed out the mountain where the Indian Airlines A320 crashed on descent into the airport. Nice.


Our bus, at the stop
It had been an amazing trip. Even for a few days, seeing how life is in a rural community where there is no tourism, just agriculture, is quite difficult for foreigners. I felt privileged. I had some new ideas. Maybe this was the kick in the backside I needed.

SAM

Ukaalo ra Oraalo - Uphill and Down-dale - Part 1

So, I finally made a visit to the hills. In nearly any other country, these hills would be called mountains stretching from 800m to 2700m above sea level. However, in Nepal they are small fry compared to the Himalaya where 5000m is considered a mere trifle.


The 'Hills'
We were going to visit a friend called Bidro and his village. A year before, he had built a micro-hydro power station, with funding from a Norwegian organisation. I wanted to look at the micro-hydro project and see it from an engineering point of view, and also try to pick Bidro's brain about getting funding. Also, I hadn't really been into the hills in Nepal, so this was going to be a great chance. To get into the hills required 2 bus rides, 5 hours all together, and a walk of 2 hours I was told. After last years feats in the Himalaya, 2 hours walking would be nothing surely.

We woke up before dawn to catch the bus out of Kathmandu, and after 20 minutes arrived in a small village, where we would catch the next bus from. Sat at the bus stop was a blue bus that looked like it had seen better days. Bidro looked at me, smiled and asked if I was scared yet. My nervous laugh probably gave him the answer he was hoping for. Fortunately Achut, who had also come along for the ride, was looking more scared than me. Bidro had reserved some seats, as the bus was generally quite full, but then with an evil glint in his eye he asked if I wanted to sit on top, as there would be more room there. At this point Achut almost bolted. When he was younger he had fallen of the roof of a bus, which had mentally scarred him for life. I calmly said that I would probably kill myself if I went onto the roof. I knew my limitations - I am clumsy and uncoordinated - and knew at the first bump in the road the bus would hit I would fall of and be crushed by oncoming vehicles. (I am also prone to hyperbole and paranoia.)

We waited in the local tea shop until the time came to climb into the bus. We tried to board. However, the bus was already bulging with the throng of people that were sat and stood there. Fortunately, our seats were still empty. I squeezed through past old men, young mothers and their babies, sacks of grain and rice that were to be delivered en route and goats and managed to gracefully place my rear end on the appointed seat. For a country that is extremely conservative in terms of physical contact between people, buses are an anomaly. People are pressed against complete strangers with all parts of the body with little, if any, embarrassment. I suppose it is the necessity that forces people to make these sacrifices in culture.

The bus driver turned his head to look how full the bus was, seeing if there was any more room he could fit in another paying passenger, and with a final maniacal grin at me, we set off. Within the next half a mile, we had stopped at least 10 times to add more passengers and cargo, including a gas cylinder. Beggaring belief, a lady put her head through the door and spent 2 minutes trying to convince the driver there was enough room to carry her and her newly acquired buffalo inside. For a moment I thought he was going to say yes. Fortunately, good sense prevailed. After another mile, the road became a broken dirt track. The bus pitched from one side to another. My hand gripped the steel bar next to my seat tightly, knuckles white. I had thought about crashing, but tipping over wasn't something that had crossed my mind. I spent the next half an hour trying to estimate how high the centre of gravity was of the bus, and then work out what angle it would need to exceed to tip over. I decided that we should be OK, as we would need over 30 degrees before we started to tip. I looked over at Achut. He looked scared. I pointed out to him my calculation, but that seemed to unnerve him even more. Oh well, I tried.

We reached one of the many landslides that had affected the road and the bus stopped. Achut whispered in my ear "This is where a bus fell down 10 days ago, 11 people died.". I remembered seeing it on the news. There was little left of the bus, let alone the people inside. I looked at the road surface. It was surely more than 30 degrees. Not only that, there were rocks on the uphill side, which would cause the bus to rock further towards the drop. I looked over the edge. I couldn't see the bottom. I saw the driver steeling himself up, the engine revving, eying up the track ahead. Everyone in the bus around me was doing their own personal prayer, many touching their forehead and heart repeatedly in the Hindu fashion. We started to move. A silence descended over the bus. We climbed the pile of rocks, the whole bus shaking, the back of the bus slid with the bald tyres struggling for grip. The bus tipped and tipped and tipped. I closed my eyes, praying that it would stop. And it did. The bus slowly began to right itself and we descended down the pile of rocks. A collective sigh of relief passed through the bus. The man behind me had obviously had a rather spicy curry that morning, as his sigh of relief was more pungent than most.

We reached a corner in the road, there were 2 buses facing the opposite direction. The other drivers informed us that half a mile along the road it was blocked by a truck whose bearing had collapsed. So we had the choice - walk or go back. So we set out walking, not wanting to give up at the first hurdle. The sun was scorching. We walked for 2 and a half hours along the road until we reached the intended bus stop. Here we stopped and ate some lunch, the first real food in the day. I was sweating very badly, and desperately needed some water. We sat in a dark little kitchen, ate and drank before heading out again. And that's where it started.


Walking after the road blockage in the midday sun
I knew straight away, I shouldn't have drunk the water in the kitchen. My stomach wasn't strong enough. We still had 2 hours walking left. We were descending quite rapidly towards the Bagmati river, the same that flows through the middle of Kathmandu. We reached a bridge, on the side we were standing on was Lalitpur district, the same I lived in, and the other side was Makwanpur, where Bidro's village - Tinga - was. Achut offered to carry the bag. My pride kicked in, I could carry this, no problem. However, as we started to climb up the slope on the other side of the river, I realised I couldn't. In fact, I could barely carry myself up the slope. To climb 100m vertically I had to stop 4 or 5 times, climbing for 3 minutes, resting for 2 and so on. What was even more galling, Bidro's father, a wiry man of at least 60 years, climbed up the slope with a bag of at least the same weight as mine with minimal effort. We reached the top. I almost collapsed. All I could do was sit down and try and slow my breathing and heart, both of which were in overdrive.


The bridge between Lalitpur and Makwanpur
After 10 minutes, my body had returned to a reasonable level and so we walked on. At first, most of the walking was along a flat path cut into the hill. But then we started to descend again. This wasn't so much of a problem, but I knew after going down, we would have to go up as well. Bidro's dad kept with me, pointing out their village which we could see in the distance, encouraging me along. When the uphills came, I struggled, needing to rest on numerous occasions. By this point I had relinquished the bag, and my pride, to Achut.

As we rounded the last headland before the hill that Bidro's village was on we hit another problem. The way was blocked by a landslide. We were going to have to cross the river in a less convenient place. We found some rocks that could provide a passage across the river, and Bidro, his dad and Achut made their way with dexterity across. Me, as I pointed out before, being clumsy and uncoordinated managed to slip on the rocks and step into the river before grabbing the nearest tree to support myself. Unfortunately for me, the tree was covered in inch long thorns. Pain pulsed through my hand as I reached the other side and slowly began to pull out those thorns that decided to stay in my palm.

There was no path from here. Bidro's father knew where he wanted to go, and so made his way to an irrigation channel. I had had enough of slipping on stones, so I walked through the channel. Something struck me at the back of my mind about leeches, but I didn't care any more. I just wanted to lie down and die. My stomach was talking more than a teenage girl with her friends, my heart was soon to explode out of my chest and my lungs just couldn't get enough oxygen in to satisfy my need. Bidro's dad saw this, and started to make his own path up the slope. Every two or three paces I had to stop. We finally reached a recognisable path through the terraced fields. 5 minutes I was told from here. However, I still could only walk for one minute at a time. We ducked under a 2 inch poly-pipe, Bidro proudly smiled at me "my micro-hydro pipe" he said. We reached a huge tree and I knew we were there. Just above the tree were 2 houses, where Bidro's family lived. I went into the guest room, took off my t-shirt and collapsed on the bed.

I was deaf to everyone. I closed my eyes and tried to control my breathing and heart. I had never been that tired before. And the thought hit me - I was going to have to do it all again to go home.


Bidro's House
Part 2 will come soon...

SAM

4 Months on...

It's strange. I remember leaving the UK like it was yesterday. I know it was only 4 months ago, but my memory is very bad generally so remembering an event clearly is not something I'm used to. Waking up early. Making my last preparations before going up to catch the bus at stupid o'clock in the morning. Saying goodbye to my Mum and Dad. Sitting on the bus in Plymouth and getting worried about the amount of snow starting to fall. Reaching Reading and the motorway being at a standstill. Worrying about missing my flight. The relief of reaching Heathrow in time. Running and jumping onto the trolley in Heathrow, just missing the old man with walking stick before, with great skill and dexterity, jumping off and catching the trolley before it crashed into the wall. Meeting my sister in the terminal and checking in. Saying goodbye to her at departures. And in the queue realising what I was doing - it hit me like a salmon in the face.

So, in 4 months what have I done. Well, not much to be honest. I've learnt quite a lot about how things work with NGOs, which I was completely ignorant of before coming here - a big mistake. I've also improved my Nepali a lot. I can understand quite a lot now, and even have conversations with strangers which is fun. I still can't quite understand the TV or songs, those words a bit too quickly for me and are usually complicated. However I'm getting better at reading the ticker going along the bottom so can tell when people die in bus crashes or the parliament is meeting to resolve the latest crisis in Nepali politics. The good thing about doing nothing is I haven't invalidated my visa, which they have just doubled in price to my surprise.

I've also learnt a lot about myself, something I didn't really expect as I thought after 26 years I knew myself quite well. Some things I'm not so happy about so will definitely have to work on. Others aren't that bad qualities to have. I've found I've inherited a something from my Grandad. Unfortunately it's not his amazingly big hands, skill as a carpenter or ability to grow a most beautiful garden. I've become a hypochondriac. I have so far self diagnosed myself with appendicitis, bronchitis, giardiasis, worms, ear infections, conjunctivitis to name a few and become very paranoid about every little bump and lump I find - especially on my head. Of course, all of these lumps are potentially fatal. But to be truthful, the only thing I've really suffered is the traditional travellers stomach problems, and none of them have been that serious - especially compared to the second time I came here, I had stomach acid coming out and couldn't stand up by myself, so had to be carried for 2 km to a friend's house.

So, the report card would probably say:
"Could do a lot better. Must work harder. Stop obsessing on health and staring at navel. Promising prospects ahead if you put your mind to it."


Me, after 4 months of Nepal
(I know I haven't shown many photos of me for a long time, partly because I don't like photos of me, but mainly because I had a insect bite the size of Mount Everest on the end of my nose, which wouldn't go away. It probably sounds quite vain and is, but hey.)

The final approach into Kathmandu airport is fairly tricky, you descend over the mountains surrounding the valley and duck down below the peaks before landing. Sometimes the valley floor is hidden beneath the morning mist or afternoon pollution cloud. More recently the evening flights have faced another problem - kites. As I understand it's not as popular as in Pakistan or Afghanistan, but in the evenings there are still several hundred kites flying from the roofs the houses here. These kites don't fly just 20 or 30 metres above the ground, they can go several hundred metres up. The other day a kite from a house near ours got caught up in the turbulence from a small shuttle aircraft approaching the airport. What would happen if the aircraft actually flew into a kite? I guess very little, 5 rupees worth of plastic and bamboo wouldn't be able to take down, but I can imagine it would be fairly scary for a pilot to see one of the kites passing his cockpit window. Anyway, these kites are flown as high up as possible with mock battles taking place, young vs. old, everyone vs. foreigner, the usual. At home, I would like to think I'm a fairly competent kite flier, but all my kites have 2 or 4 lines, providing ease of control. However, these are single line kites, and controlled by pulling the string when the kite is facing the appropriate direction. I can't seem to tell when the kite is pointing the direction I want it to go in, and so it generally tends to plummet from the sky every time I take control. The nearby army camp has gained a large number of kites!

I don't know how many people have been watching the news and have seen the stories from western Nepal, but the World Food Program and other aid agencies say that there are almost 2.2 million people in the remote hills that are starving. The price of food has obviously risen worldwide, the increase in the price of petrol has caused further price increases for those dependent on buying in food, and landslides have made many roads impassible even with tractors. Can I ask everyone to pray that a solution is found soon before these people starve to death. This should not be happening in a world with plenty.

On a bit of a happier note, today is Nag Panchami - a festival to appease the snake spirits. So this morning, Aama, Achut and Rachhu stuck up pictures of snakes with cow dung on the entrance to the house, before doing puja. During the puja, the picture of the snake is covered with milk and water, grass is put on the top of the picture, then large quantities of sindur powder is applied to the picture.


The puja-ed snake picture
Apparently this is also the day to clean your well. Wells are the traditional home to snakes, but on this day snakes are off visiting their relatives so you are safe to clean your well. A bit like Boxing day in the UK. However, I don't think I'd like to find the well where all the snakes are visiting their relatives in...

A Gaine (said guy-nee), traditional Nepali wandering minstrel, has turned up to our house and has been playing Nepali folk songs whilst I've been writing. The sound of the chords playing on the sarangi, a Nepali violin type instruments, and the Gaine's whining melodious voice brings everyone in our road out onto their balconies to listen. He sings a song or two, I think they are sad, as his face has a pained expression on it and the audience remains quiet and contemplative. He then asks for some money, and receives a few rupees before wandering on to the next road. The joys of living in Nepal.

I'm off to see some micro-hydro projects on Friday or Saturday with a friend - was supposed to be today, but this is Nepal - and so shall be away for a week or so. I'm really looking forward to getting out of the valley and visiting another rural village. I'm not quite sure how things will go, it's one day walk from the nearest bus stop and these people won't probably have seen too many white people before.

Fun fun fun

SAM

A Birthday Party

Yesterday I was invited to a birthday party for a 3 year old little girl, Parisma, who lives in the house opposite us. So at the appointed hour Bhanja and I went. The family are an ex-British Army family, one of the many in our locality. However, Parisma's father is now in the Indian Army and currently stationed there, and mother is in America, so Parisma lives with her Grandparents.

Just as we walked across the road we heard Happy Birthday emerging from the house, and knew we were late. When we arrived, we were led into a room. There was Parisma stood behind a table. She was wearing a new dress sent from the UK, a cardboard pointy hat and a pair of Elton John-esque glasses. Her eyes were burning bright, looking around her at all the attention she had, confused yet enjoying it. On the table was a large plate of apples and bananas - prasad, an offering blessed during puja - one apple had 2 burning incense sticks stuck in it, a birthday cake already cut, and a small plate of rice and curd to be used later for tikas.


I was guided to a seat whilst Bhanja was given a pair of the Elton John-esque glasses and sat with the other children already there. On the chair next to mine was a pile of presents, to which ours was added. In my pocket was 50 rupees to give to Parisma as adults generally give money, not presents. Soon, one by one starting with her Grandparents, people came up, gave themselves a tika from the small plate and gave Parisma a tika before giving her their present and having a photograph. At this point I got concerned. I was going to be expected to give Parisma a tika, as well as myself. I had never given anyone a tika before in my life. The other matter of concern was that everyone seemed to be giving at least 100 rupees. As discretely as I could I pulled out 100 rupees from my wallet, and swapped it for the 50 note in my pocket.


My turn arrived. My heart was beating fast. By now, a small mountain of presents had built up on the table, and the tika on Parisma's forehead was threatening to feed a small nation for the next month. I asked Parisma's uncle to show me what to do, as I thought that would provide a good excuse for being lame. So he showed me. I gave myself a tika, missing the centre of my forehead, the traditional location for a tika, instead locating it just over my right eye. Then I knelt in front of Parisma and tried to give her a tika. However, the best I seemed to be able to do was to knock off a large part of the tika already on her forehead. Great. With the remaining rice that had adhered itself to my fingers, I sprinkled over Parisma's head, and then handed her the money. Our photograph was taken, and I returned to sit on the ground.


At this point Parisma's grandfather started to talk to me, just as a girl entered the room. "You see her," he said to me, "she's very clever. Just finishing a BS [Bachelor of Science] in Nursing. Works very hard too." I could tell where this was going. The next thing that would come is something about her being very pretty, didn't I agree, and not married yet. However, I was truly saved by the bell, as the phone rang, and Parisma's grandfather answered the phone. Soon after, the food was served and a huge variety of Nepali curry was put on a plate for me, along with some apple, banana and a piece of the cake. An interesting mixture. As I ate, following Nepali custom, my plate was filled several times more with other curries. I ate, drank and made polite conversation - my parents did a good job - and learnt quite a lot about all the people in the room.


After eating more than my fill, I was led upstairs where it was a bit cooler. In my previous 3 trips to Nepal I had never visited this house, although it is just across the road. It was strange to see our road from a slightly different angle. I felt enlightened, looking at the world from a different point of view. The house that had looked at for many hours from ours I was now stood in. I could see our house, a drab, concrete grey building with the sun setting behind it, giving the only colour to the scene. I could see the houses that were hidden behind Parisma's house, normally obscured from view in our house. These were slightly dirty, one or two floor houses that the light of day rarely entered due to large amount of 3 and 4 floor houses surrounding them, victims of the lazy Nepali town planning laws. Normally houses are built within a compound and built to within a metre of the land, trying to make the most of the available space. However, this leads to many houses loosing natural light, as you can reach from one house to a neighbouring house with ease.


After an hour, we were called back down again and once again food was served. I had no space left inside and a pained look appeared on my face. I reluctantly accepted my fate, as I knew I wouldn't be able to win if I said no to the food. Somehow I managed to avoid people adding food to my plate. Maybe they could see me struggling, and my quick response to the offers was an indication of how I felt. Parisma's grandfather started to talk to me again. After a few minutes chatting about his family and mine, the subject once more went onto weddings. I think someone had asked him whether I was married - a standard question in Nepali society, along with age, caste and education. I didn't quite catch everything that was said, but it was along the lines of needing to arrange me a marriage, I was getting quite old to remain single. Everyone laughed. I decided, as I do in these situations, to keep quiet and look embarrassed. Keeping quiet out of choice, looking embarrassed not as much. Once again, I was saved. Aama called from our house, saying it was time we should return. So we thanked everyone, and made our way back to the house.

Parisma and her Grandfather (December 2007)

SAM