Try Try Try 10,000 Years Nonstop

Life is often mundane no matter where you are or what you are doing. For me it is a struggle to not let myself get taken over by the ease and banality of routine. So many parts of the day become a series of habitual actions. I recently read that habits, once formed, are incredibly difficult to break because once they have been established they require very little brain activity. This doesn’t just apply to “bad” habits but to anything that is done consistently on a regular basis. If, like me, you’ve ever had that moment, upon reaching school or work, where you somehow don’t even remember the process of getting there, perhaps this science on habits can help explain why that is. At least I hope so. You know you drove, walked, or rode your bike, but where you turned or stopped have become such second nature that your brain has decided that it doesn’t really need to pay much attention. And there is something comforting, reassuring even, about having a particular cadence to your day. To your life. A steady rhythm to exist by. It is nice to not have to think all the time. Your brain clearly agrees with this, as it has apparently figured out how to half-ass its way through its central function. But daily, or perhaps even lifelong habituation can have its drawbacks. Being a cog in the machine of your own body has its limitations. It prevents you from seeing. It prevents you from doing. Then again, sometimes it can make things easier. Just go through the motions. Sometimes what you see sucks. Sometimes you lose a lot through the act of doing. In which case maybe life as a series of habits, whatever they may be, allows people to be, to exist, even if not to live in the fullest sense of the word. But who does that anyway? What does that even mean?

I was trying not to take you all down my own slightly solipsistic, overtly self-indulgent processing but I’m just going to tell you now that I can’t seem to change directions. I’m just going to go ahead and let my internal monologue escape through my fingers. There is a story in here somewhere though, I promise. But first, forgive me as I work through a few things. For me right now this involves my struggle with trying to understand the injustice, sorrow, hardship, and downright unfairness of what goes on in this world and how people manage to continue to keep on keeping on. Life, under an endless number of incomprehensible conditions, continues to be lived, even when I want to stick my fingers in my ears, scrunch my eyes tightly shut and hide under the covers and pretend that it doesn’t. But for whatever reason I can’t seem to do that. To return to the idea of habits, maybe it is this habitual nature of existence that allows people to endure lifetimes filled with hardships. A life of hardships. In which case maybe our brains are doing us a favor.

In working on an expression of interest in the hopes of securing funding to implement an HIV/AIDS program I found myself reading about the Badi community in the western Tarai (plains) region of Nepal. The Badi are a Hindu Dalit (untouchable) sub-caste. They are untouchable except in one incredibly disconcerting way; Badi women are essentially hereditary prostitutes. Sadly, over the years this practice has only become more entrenched, particularly since the 1950s due to various social, political, and economic changes. What I ended up writing about did not relate to this community. But now I know about it. I will always know about it.

The situation for women is but one of many areas that I find myself thinking about frequently these days. Last week, after being accused of being a witch, a woman was burned alive. The tradition of women not being allowed into the house when they are menstruating continues in pockets throughout the country. For that week they must live without adequate provisions in a tiny hut, often barely big enough to lie down in. During a cold spell this winter one teenage girl stuffed her blanket under the bottom of the door to keep the wind out. There were no windows. She died of suffocation. These are just a few of the stories that show up in the paper regularly. And for whatever horrific tale of injustice makes it into the national media, the injustice filled realities of daily life for so many people are just that. Life. Nothing newsworthy. These things are sad. I’m okay with being sad. And I don’t want to belie the fact that much is being done in this country, and that there are many people who dedicate their lives to end these archaic practices and work towards social justice and giving people agency in their lives. I also don’t want to give the impression that Nepal is particularly backwards or barbaric. It’s just got its issues, as do we all. I suppose for some reason I’ve just been compelled to seek these issues out here instead of at home or somewhere else. Maybe part of me thought it would be easier to keep myself at a distance because it is foreign to me. And to some extent that may be true. But in the end people are people. Suffering is suffering.

I came here with the intent to work on issues of education, but I find myself pulled in so many directions. In a country facing so many problems it becomes increasingly difficult to maintain focus and not become overwhelmed by the sheer vastness and depth of the palpable suffering, struggles, and discrimination that define so many people’s lives here. It is thick and dense and suffocating at times. But their weight is not my weight. Their story is not my story. Their life is not my life. I can only soldier on and help fight the battles that I am asked to help fight. Help share the stories I am asked to share. My own personal burdens are of the privileged kind. They are born out of a good education, the encouragement to question and think critically, and the knowledge that has been instilled in me of my own value. I of course have my limits. I belong to a short, neurotic, over thinking, anxiety-ridden clan. But unlike the situation for many people here, with proper therapy, obsessive self-analysis, and the option of medication I can cast off my dental floss shackles. So, in what is certainly not a purely altruistic way, I feel like I have to at least try to work towards some sort of positive change and do what I can to not make too many mistakes along the way. I will always try to be culturally sensitive, but I can’t buy into blind cultural relativism. There are some things that I refuse to say are okay, no matter the context.

I have recently found myself regularly thinking of the First Noble Truth in Buddhism that life is suffering. It most certainly is. But I have also been thinking about a saying that I happened upon by Zen master Seung Sahn Sunim. “Try try try 10,000 years nonstop.” So I guess I will keep trying. Maybe I can make a habit out of it. Try for myself. Try for others. Try for 10,000 years. It often feels like trying to sweep a dirt floor. But if you’ve ever seen a dirt floor that has not been swept you realize that it is not futile.

Okay, let me now return to where I started. So, as mentioned, breaking habits is hard. Taking yourself out of your comfort zone is hard. Made harder still by the fact that your comfort zone eventually modifies to your new surroundings, and your mind seems hardwired to gravitate towards forming new habits. But if you don’t let yourself get too comfortable, don’t let yourself be lured in, to relax into new habits, you may stumble into some interesting situations you would never have before. Maybe even start thinking in new ways. (Sorry brain.)

Even in Nepal – where entire villages could be built with the cast off stones that failed plans had been set in – I have still managed to establish a set of habits and routines that I mindlessly go through. But, as the only way to survive here is to go with the flow and allow for changes in one’s routines, I sometimes find myself in completely unexpected situations. Such was the case last Saturday.

After agreeing to come in to work on our day off to finish up the expressions of interest, we showed up at the office at 7:30am. We were then informed that a field trip had been arranged and we were going to go to Nepalgunj, a border town 3-5 hours (depending on the driver and road taken) southwest of Tulsipur. I would not describe my initial reaction as being one of excitement. More of a mild irritation that I often get when I have not done the appropriate mental preparation required to handle the different cultural idiosyncrasies I will inevitably face throughout my days here. Once I had a moment to accept the altered plan I was fine with it. In fact, the idea of getting out of Tulsipur for a day was actually kind of nice. And I very much appreciated the effort made by BASE’s executive director on our behalf. The whole trip was planned for the sole purpose of helping us gather more information and contextualize our research.

And so we were off. Over the hills out of the Dang valley, and down to Nepalgunj where the air is so dry that the earth seems to suck the moisture from your every part of your body - from your eyeballs down to your toes - in order to replenish itself.

There were two objectives to our trip. The first was to go to a Community Care Center (CCC) for people living with HIV/AIDS and the other, much less assured (but way cooler) objective, was to visit a prison. We arrived in Nepalgunj around 12:30 and parked on the side of the main road while we waited for further instruction on how to get to the CCC. We sat on a bench trying to shade ourselves from the hot southern sun. The dust on the road was kicked up in flurries that never had time to settle back to the ground as cars, rickshaws, and horse drawn carts weighted down with people constantly streamed past on their way to and from the India Nepal border.

It wasn’t long before we were back in the jeep for the two minute ride down a small side street to the CCC. Inside the center we learned about the work they did and the services they provided. With so few options, the work they do is incredibly important. I had already read about the lack of treatment and testing facilities for people with HIV/AIDS in Nepal, and this was only made clearer during our visit. Overall, the experience was interesting, heartbreaking, educational, and frustrating. About what I was expecting.

As we got back into the jeep it was looking less and less likely that we were going to make it to a prison. As networks were being mobilized and favors called in we drove around town a little bit before stopping again on the side of a road to wait for a final decision. Waiting is an activity in and of itself in Nepal. Probably the most popular one. It spans all ages, genders, and classes. It is also a skill. I’m not good at it. It’s as if I don’t know where to put my hands. But I am practicing. And so we waited. We stood under an awning. We were the entertainment for some local children. They were waiting too. We aren’t very entertaining. Before leaving a girl ran up and gave us each a piece of gum. That gesture was just what I needed at that moment.

To my amazement we were eventually told that we had been given permission to go to the prison, and the prison was awesome. Upon arrival we were led through the front gate to a little open air waiting area where we were told to wait. We waited. A bubbly woman wearing white capri pants and a t-shirt came in and sat down. She spoke with our companions in Nepali for a minute and then said something in English. Wonderfully understandable English. It turned out that she was a prisoner there. Had been for the past five years. She has one more to go. Only had a three year sentence, but four more were added on because she couldn’t pay the fine. She told us about prison life. Mostly how it was for the women. How she was allowed to go to the market and shop for herself and the other women using the 45 rupees per day that the government provided for them. How they cooked together. How she had taught them to bake. How much they liked Chinese food and soy sauce. How when her back was hurting she managed to get a chiropractor to come to the prison every Wednesday and give them all massages. How some inmates saved the money they got from the government so they could send it to their families on the outside. At some point she excused herself for a moment so she could answer her cell phone, her mom was calling.

I had imagined that the prison was going to be fascinating. I hadn’t anticipated that I would have left happier than I had come in. This isn’t to say that the prison conditions are great, or even good for that matter, especially for the men. Only that you never know what are going to be the experiences that will stick with you forever, but so far it seems that many of them happen when you allow yourself to be taken in unanticipated directions. When you break your habits or let them be broken for you.

With These 250 kgs of Pork I Thee Wed

It is one of many wedding seasons in Nepal, and with wedding season comes the opportunity to really experience Nepali culture and hospitality. Over a period of five days the much anticipated wedding for the brother of BASE’s founder and president took over the lives of many, including myself. The office was essentially shut down as people participated in the festivities. Having no knowledge of Tharu weddings I was interested to see how they differed from what I had experienced last time I was in Nepal. So much happened during those five days that I am not sure where to even begin. People went missing. Rice was consumed. Hooch was drunk. Animals were slaughtered. Instruments were played. Vehicles broke down. Shame was thrown out the window. Saris were worn. And what is sure to become a timeless Nepali television program was recorded.

We were first introduced to a group of Tharu drummers on Wednesday, the first night of the wedding. It is this group of drummers that traditionally would lead the procession of the groom’s side of the family from their village to the bride’s in order to pick her up and bring her back to enter into the groom’s family. In an attempt to learn more about the drummers and the role they played in the wedding we were encouraged to ask them questions. Following a short round of Q&A, made possible by the help of a translator, we found ourselves unable to say no to the opportunity of trying the drums out for ourselves. There were three of us: Scott, Caroline (the really awesome, super helpful, couldn’t-imagine-trying-to-figure-things-out-in-Tulsipur-without-her intern that is also at BASE), and myself. Through a series of gestures and nods we tried to follow along through imitation as a few of the drummers attempted to teach us how to play. We did our best. It wasn’t very good. We made for good entertainment. As a point of clarification, all seven weren’t confined to just playing the drums. Some also played different horn and flute like instruments. One instrument sounded like a snake charmer, if the snake then came out of the basket and was trying to swallow a cat. In any case, it was on this night that I first developed a fondness for these seven(ish) old men who would play an integral role in the events that followed a few days later.

The actual ceremonial components were only a small part of the wedding experience. Because the bride was from Kathmandu a contingent from the groom’s side (and the groom himself) needed to go there to participate in certain ceremonies and to pick the bride up and take her back to Tulsipur in a modified version of the village to village march. I’m not sure if we were told that we could come or that we were supposed to come, but either way I wasn’t going to say no. It is a 12 hour journey to Kathmandu. We were given instruction to show up at 7:30 in the morning on Thursday in order to witness another part of the ceremony before boarding the bus which was scheduled to leave around 10 o’clock. Knowing that nothing starts on time, and not wanting to get up so early, Caroline and I showed up at 9:30am. We were there with plenty of time to spare and didn’t miss any of the rituals. A man wiggled his ears for us. This was not part of the ceremony. The bus did not leave at 10. After insisting that we were not hungry at least three times we ate a hearty breakfast of dal bhat and little dried fishes.

At around 2:30pm we boarded the bus. The drummers also boarded it. The drummers got off. We were somewhat relieved. Our relief was short-lived. It turned out that they just had to march us out. And so we were off, slowly. The bus crept along after the drummers down the alley we started on and onto the main road. They then re-boarded and it seemed like we were really off. There were handles on the seatback in front of each person. I did not find this comforting.

Shortly after departing the girl two rows up put her head out the window. The man in the row between us shut his just in time. This man liked to clap. Sometimes he got people to join along. At some point her stomach luckily settled, and she was fine for the remainder of the trip. After an hour of driving we stopped for snacks. 45 minutes later we were back on the road. 10 minutes after that we stopped on the side of the road for a bathroom break. The next 12 hours followed a similar pattern. There was a good deal of revelry throughout the night which included lots of dancing (some of which involved the pole in the center of the bus), clapping, egg eating (because, really, there couldn't not be boiled eggs), and many bathroom breaks. A few people danced in the aisle. After what was apparently an exhausting hip shaking session by one of the drummers, he sat/fell to the floor and proceeded to stick his finger up his nose. This revived him and soon he was back on his feet dancing away to the classic Nepali hits that were being blasted from the bus speakers throughout the night. He later could be found splayed out in the aisle, lying atop a bed of discarded peanut shells and orange rinds, napping.

With each bathroom break I found myself getting off the bus just in case there weren’t going to be any more stops. There always were. I still always got off. When we stopped for dinner Caroline, Sunita (a lovely woman who took us under her wing and ensured we made it through the trip), and I went in search of a secluded spot. We settled on someone’s driveway across the street from the restaurant. It was not secluded. By the time we had returned to Tulsipur I had gone to the bathroom on more roadsides than in all my previous road trips combined, once behind a bus on a major thoroughfare in Kathmandu, and apparently in front of someone’s house. To be fair it was dark and we did not know there was a house there until a light came on and we had to run away. We threw caution, and shame, to the wind.

When we finally arrived in Kathmandu at 3 o’clock in the morning it appeared that nobody knew where we were supposed to go. On foot, and in the darkness of post-midnight load shedding, we wandered down a number of side streets, gaining encouragement to continue on by the barking of the dogs that hid out in many of the doorways. After standing in one spot for a while we finally heard the creaking of a metal gate and we were ushered into a guest house that seemed to appear out of nowhere. In 3 hours we were woken so that we could have sufficient time to wait. Women dressed me in a sari. For once I wished more pins had been involved. On the way to the ceremony we stopped and a marching band got on the bus. The Tharu drummers did not.

After about 5 hours at the ceremony - that included stopping traffic as we marched and danced along with the wedding procession, the consumption of paan (a betel nut concoction that I still do not like despite encouragement from others that I will), and a pretty tasty buffet – we headed back to the bus for the return journey to Tulsipur. I marched right onto a rat. It was squishy. It was nearing six when we got on the bus. We sat down. Some of the drummers were there. Some were not. We continued to sit. Many people got off the bus. Eventually we learned that 2 or 3 drummers were missing; lost in Kathmandu with no phones, no money, no knowledge of the city. And most likely they did not speak much Nepali, if any. The police had been mobilized and some of the people on the bus had also gone to search the city for an unspecified number of old men in traditional Tharu clothes wielding drums around their necks. Kathmandu is big; the men were small. It didn’t look good. It was explained to us that the drummers had never been to Kathmandu and had only come on the journey in order to see it. Caroline and I laughed. It wasn’t funny. An arbitrary time of 11pm was given to us as when we would start to head back, even if we hadn’t found them. At 9 it seemed that we were on our way. The drummers remained lost. I guess we’d waited for them long enough. We laughed again. It still wasn’t funny. The bus drove a bit, but it was another two hours until we were actually headed out of the city.

At around 2am the bus broke down and many men got out to scratch their heads and stare at the engine. It took an hour and a half, but eventually the scratching and staring worked. The smoking and spitting probably didn’t hurt either. The next stop wasn’t for another hour, for what we thought was a bathroom break. An hour into the bathroom break it became clear that it wasn’t a bathroom break. Our tired driver had decided it was time for a nap. After another hour, at daybreak, in a roadside shack/restaurant, we sat on the edge of a bench which we shared with a sleeping man and drank tea. The sleeping man was not the driver. Not long after the driver stumbled out of the luggage compartment in the back of the bus, eyes half open and filled with sleep, clutching a pillow in his arms. Now moderately rested, it was not much longer till we were on the road again. It took over 19 hours to get back to Tulsipur. We were dirty. We hadn’t slept. We were cold. We were missing two or three people. We were still laughing. We might have also been crying. I’m not sure. No one else seemed to have had the same bus ride as us. They appeared rested and continued to sing and dance till the end. The missing drummers were there. They had somehow finagled their way onto a public bus back to Tulsipur, despite having no money, and beat us there by a solid 4 hours.

After lunch we were finally able to go home for a few hours before needing to return for more festivities that evening. It was now Saturday. On Sunday there was the actual reception part of the wedding. I tried to dress myself. I still can’t wrap a sari. Everyone in Tusipur was ready to help me. As I was buying bangles on the side of the road a woman took my chosen bracelets out of my hand, pointed to another color to show that I had not picked the right ones to match the sari. I obliged. As we walked past Sithals (the restaurant where we can often be found eating dinner) on our way to the reception, the mother of the establishment pulled me inside and attempted to re-wrap me. It was a common occurrence throughout the day, until finally, as we took a walk to break away from the party, I was pulled into the back room of a roadside eatery/home where four women I had never seen before again unwrapped me. As they laughed and spoke Nepali at and around me an unforgiving string (the kind used to seal industrial sized sacks of rice or radishes) was tightly cinched around my waist. One woman came at me with a cleaver and sliced off the remaining string. I stood with my arms out as I was wrapped again, pinned, and sighed at. At the end of it all I said thank you. I didn’t entirely mean it. They walked away. It seemed that it was not their home or restaurant. No one tried to completely re-dress me for the rest of the day. Only a few more minor adjustments were made. That was nice, though the tight string made it extremely difficult to eat any of 1000 kgs of meat that had been prepared for the celebration. Or breathe.

While I am glad I took part in all parts of the wedding I am not sure I would want to relive the experience. Unfortunately the entire 5 day affair was recorded and is apparently supposed to air on Nepali television in a month or so. I think I'll pass on attending the screening.

The party bus

All the drummers together in one place prior to their adventure

Caroline and I with the bride and groom - day 5