Caste system blues

I live above a mini-shantytown that could easily be mistaken for Soweto if it were pulled from its context between two beautiful homes. The terrace from my bedroom overlooks the tin roofs and communal water area. The ceilings appear to be at most 7 feet high. I think maybe 8-10 people live there and share a bathroom that is also shared by the newspaper office. People brush their teeth and bathe outside. They are all low-caste and the surrounding homes are all Brahmin/Chetri families.
Hidden from view. That is how I am starting to see the caste system- at least in the context that I am witnessing it in Nepal. The people who work in my home are in indentured servitude. Low born they follow the family tradition of being a house servant. As far I can tell they might have part of Saturday off but I am not even sure about that. And it is the same fucking day every single day. Cook, clean, iron, wash, cook, go to market, cook dinner for the family and the dinner guests, clean up after dinner, bed. Every single day.
One man that comes to my house, who is considered elite in the media community of Kathmandu, won’t eat food if the low-caste 2 year old has touched it.
Pulled from its context and this looks like exactly what it is.
Hidden from view it is allowed to exist with just a whisper from the elites and academics.

(Sidenotes) on Dealing with Death

Last Thursday at 7 PM: I am told that the grandfather of the family who I am staying with, unfortunately, died.

“Aw [expletive],” I thought (or said aloud) “this sucks.” Immediately I was overwhelmed with grief for the 26 year old who had lost her grandfather and secondarily I was concerned for my future position in the home-stay. Or maybe it was the other way around? (Semantics!)

I arrived home late that night in hopes of leaving the family to grieve without that girl standing over their shoulders wanting tea, or something. Relatively unnoticed I slipped into my bedroom. Fine, I would deal with it in the morning. (Apparent Success.)

Not so, Nutan (my home-stay sister) came into my room shortly after my “stealthy” arrival. I told her I was “sorry”; she said she was “fine.” I hugged her; her arms stiffened by her side. (Relative Fail.)

Morning came inevitably as it does, and I walked downstairs not knowing what to do or say. (Sorry seemed not to translate.) Ima, my home-stay mother, stopped me as I reached the bottom of the stairs. I explained that I would be staying out of the house for the next few days. She seemed to understand, and I wondered if she wanted me to leave for longer. She explained that upon my return I would have to eat only fruit and potatoes in accordance with the mourning rituals. (Undoubtedly a Hollywood diet fad in the making.)

Upon arrival to the house four days later the house had been transformed. People (family?) were milling about. Fruits upon fruits were piled in the kitchen and spilling out of the pantry, white cloth was draped everywhere, a shrine to grandfather was perched in the entry way.

Curiously and timidly I stepped into the living room, hands clasped neatly by my belly, eyes wide, mouth puckered in solemnity. To the left, where the dining room table usually sat, was a section siphoned off for the ‘priest’ and some boiling water. My eyes scanned right into the former comfy living room now transformed into a white oasis of linens covering couches. In the corner, there lay the 2 sons of the deceased, heads newly shaved. “Namaste,” I said. (My command of the Nepali language is heartbreaking[ly beautiful].) “OH hi!” said the man who I am staying with. And then his smiling elder brother said, “We got in trouble, that’s why we are in the corner!” I laughed in spite of myself. (Right? Laughing is okay when people are dead, isn’t it?)

Ima launched from out of nowhere (in reality, the kitchen) “WHITNEY!” yelped this soft spoken tiny woman who would never hurt a fly, “don’t touch ANYTHING!” (+5: Keeping my hands to myself finally paid off.)

She wasn’t angry; certainly, my touch would sully the holiness. Not offended, just nervous, I attempted to appease her by sheepishly bowing my head and whispering, “Can I just look?” Without waiting for an answer I backed out and crept upstairs. (Unscathed, but sweating. Hint: It was NOT hot that evening.)

OBVIOUSLY: I haven’t mastered the art of Hindu death rituals, but I’m a hell of a lot closer than I was in January. (Definitely something to write home about, or on a blog, whatever.)

Take me to America!

It was my second day in Nepal. Still a little bit confused in this dusty and hot city, I headed to Martin Chautari for an orientation session. The whole IFP group met for the first time in Kathmandu. Not even one hour went by when we already had the first group joke: “Take me to America.”

One of the speakers warned us that someone might offer us money in exchange for getting married. This agreement would allow them to obtain the golden ticket: the American green card.
This is not so hard to imagine. Katmandu is full of advertising billboards that invite people to study in the United States, England, Australia and many other places. One of the few avenues of the city hosts institutes that specialize in exporting Nepali youngsters. In the same place, they can prepare for the TOEFL exam and be advised by an Australian visa specialist. In this country, education and emigration are often synonymous.

Every year, this poor country spends its limited resources in training people that eventually emigrate. Apart from this economic aspect, the brain drain also means the loss of the most qualified population, the one that is most likely to be innovative and entrepreneurial.

If Nepal were a company, it would have declared bankrupt a long time ago. More than half of the investment in development comes from foreign aid and its rate of unemployment is 42%. It seems that the opportunities for professionals are reduced to finding a job in the government or working at an international NGO.

Of course, another path to salvation is emigrating. According to a NIDS report, every day around 560 Nepalese fly out of Nepal for foreign employment. I wonder how viable is to think of development when a country is not attractive even for its own inhabitants. But the truth is that emigration seems to be a solution both for those who leave and for those who stay.

As the solitary man who eagerly waits for his pension in Gabriel García Márquez’s “No One Writes to the Colonel,” millions of Nepali people wait for the remittances periodically sent by their relatives. The country is among the world’s top 10 remittance recipients, also according to the NIDS report.

Here, a recruitment agency is not a company that finds a secretary for a multinational company. It is a firm that specializes in sending Nepalese abroad to do menial jobs. On its website, Pioneer Overseas proudly announces that they “are engaged in supplying human resources to various parts of the world”, without a word about human resources for Nepali firms.

First Impressions

I arrived into Kathmandu after a not-too grueling 36-hour journey via Doha and Delhi. Jetlag and a piecemeal sleeping pattern meant I 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 (which is 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 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

Having yet to begin my internship and 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 actually 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.

Last week I walked to the UNESCO-designated Durbar Square; the oldest temples in the city. 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 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 5 times. Though after 20 minutes my refusal of his services went unheeded, I still gave him 250 rupees (approximately 3 dollars, well generous) to which he grew upset and alluded to the bad karma I would be served.

One afternoon I put on my dusty walking shoes and headed west of the city to the famous Swayambhunath, also known as 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 5^th 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.

My internship has yet to be finalised, but such is the attitude of Nepalis and the way of life here. Personally interested in issues of identity in the democratic process, I hope to be working with Jagaran Media Center, 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.

DhalBhat & Takari

7:00 am. Namasté.

It is the first morning after the grueling trek (pun intended) to Kathmandu Valley. It began with my last self-cooked meal for a while; I made my favorite food: eggs. Fried eggs. Than aboard the curious A Train. Missed a stop. The bus. Terminal 4, JFK Airport. Zurich Airport. Delhi Airport. Transfer to Kathmandu? Security check. Duty free shop, gift for the family: a bottle of Jim Bean. Slept on a couch awaiting transfer. Tribuwan Airport. Kathmandu? No. Lalitpur. Taxi. New room. Temporary home for the next two months.

Passed out in new bed.

7:00 am. Namasté. Awaken by the smiling face of my host mother, fascinated by the novelty of an American student living in her home. Me, fascinated by this 7:00 am business, a time of the morning that I have neglected to recognize since I was probably in high school. I was gently pulled into the kitchen for my first true Nepali meal: a plate of DhalBhat and Takari (a lentil/bean soup/stew poured over Basmati rice with a side of curried vegetables). “You rice like?” my mother said, utilizing all the limited English she knew. “Oh, why yes. MiTho chaa,” I responded, summoning the limited Nepali I remembered. Did I really like rice? I suppose. More so, it was merely exciting to intake such a staple, typical meal eaten every single morning and every single night; to begin life in Nepal like a “true Nepali” consisting of the days that are begin and end with Dhalbat and Takari.

That is, until this lentils and rice lost its novelty and became but an indicator of the morning and of the night. A sense of predictability. A sense of routine. A sense of stability. However, what happens in between is when life deviates from the norm. Nepalis, at least in Kathmandu Valley, snack. They sample from Nepali snacks of grilled corn or MoMos (dumplings/potstickers), to the snacks from wherever that have shimmied its way into the Nepal. Pizza. Chow Mein. Hamburgers. Club sandwiches. Change. Variety. Experience. But as the day quickly ends, it is time to be back home, sit at the table, and sleep after a stomach full of lentils and rice, as if a reminder, that whatever various food that was tasted, there will always be this one Nepali meal. And there will be one in the morning, regardless of the spontaneous dreams that have previously taken place that night.

And perhaps this is symbolic... Forceful bandhas (strikes) are prevalent across Nepal, and some have continued to utilize intimidation with violence. The Maoist (Unified Communist Party of Nepal – Maoists) have transformed from an insurgency into a mainstream, democratically elected political party, but currently brushed out of the mainstream government and continue to be a powerful force to be met. The YCL (Young Communist League) are growing more militant. There are internal splinters in the UML (Unified Communist Party of Nepal – Marxist-Leninists) that have compromised greatly their supposed unified vision. The MPRF (Madhesi People’s Rights Forum) are also changing the status quo politics, bringing in the voices of previously marginalized groups. The Dalits (discriminated peoples deemed as “untouchable” due to their low-caste status in the Hindi Varna system) are pushing for their voice to be represented in the Congress via the political parties. Change. Pluralism. Democracy.

But Nepalese are awaken to find that the Constitution is still but a rough draft, the Nepali Congress Party (the conservative, “right-wing” party) still instituting a hierarchical political system that continue to quiet the numerous voices of Nepal, people deprived of land and dignity and voice. And Nepalese seemingly go to bed with the same dish, where it seems that these elite party leaders believes that they have a stake, a voice in the government but no one is willing defend a system of multiple voices.

7:00 am. Namasté. DhalBhat and Takari.

“You eggs like?” inquired my Hindi host mother, who doesn’t eat meat - eggs included. I looked up from my plate of lentils and rice. Be still my soul. Eggs? Change? With a crooked smirk, I took a spoon of the scrambled eggs with onions; granted it came along with the DhalBhat and Takari, but it was no matter. There was something sweet about it, even if something so unorthodox had to be taken with something so familiar. There was something hopeful about it, I suppose.

Perhaps my dreams of awaking to find, like, a New York bagel with tofu cream cheese on that tin plate was ridiculous; I shouldn’t push my luck. But I shouldn’t stop hoping for those eggs. Maybe one day, eggs again. Maybe one day, just eggs. Maybe one day, eggs and a baguette. And a coffee… Eggs, baguette, and a coffee.

And perhaps one day, the Nepali people - the marginalized, the discriminated, the everyday people - will say or shout louder than the chaotic jibber jabber of the political elites, the words that I can only whisper to my host mother when she offers me another spoon of Dhal: “Puggio.”

Enough.