The Many Aspects of Teej

Kanchi and I had just finished putting on our red saris when a neighbor woman began yelling for Kanchi from the road. The rapid-fire Nepali was incomprehensible to me, but Kanchi spit some phrases back, told me to “Jaum! Jaum! [Go! Go!]” and grabbed a handful of rupees as we sprinted out the door.  Down at the bazaar, we joined a group of women from the community, all dressed in red saris and gold jewelry. Many of the recently married girls had returned to their maternal home to celebrate Teej, a Hindu women’s festival, with their mothers and sisters.

“Where are we going?” I asked Kanchi.

“To Koteshwar [an area of town]; we’ll go there and come right back.”

“Why?” I was rather perplexed: there was no major temple in Koteshwar; weren’t they going to do puja [worship] to Shiva on behalf of their husbands, as the holiday dictated?

She said something about the jhagada [fight] and going to the person it concerned. There had been a disturbance in the village that morning, which Kanchi had just described to me as “jhagada.” I assumed fist-fight and didn’t think about it again. But now it looked like the women of the community were going to show up somewhere and give a person their two cents about whatever the fight had been about—dressed in their red and gold finery not less. They would make a firey sight.  

A few minutes later, the women piled into a bus—young, old, married, unmarried, a few widows, and not a few young boys coming with their mothers—and we made our way to Koteshwar, a large transportation hub on the edge of Kathmandu.

When the bus stopped in front of the Koteshwar police post, my stomach flipped. The women all piled out of the bus and into the police station. I was swept along with the crowd, and steered in specific directions by Kanchi. Soon, the women were yelling various phrases at the police chief standing on the porch, and began to push inward towards the police station office door. I stayed in the back of the crowd, trying to get out of the thick of the movement of people.

As I was unable to understand her answers to my many questions, Kanchi directed me to some of her female relatives who could explain the situation to me in English. “Last night, a woman’s husband beat her,” one young woman explained, “the husband and father-in-law are inside [the jail].” She asked Kanchi, in Nepali, who I was. Kanchi explained that I was the doctor’s daughter, who had diagnosed her son’s disease; as a close family friend, I was here celebrate Teej. “We’re her daughters,” the young woman described her relationship, and the women with whom she was standing, to Kanchi. I assumed she meant nieces, or the wives of Kanchi’s nephews, as Ashok was her only son. “You look very nice in that red sari,” she smiled at me.

Turning the conversation back to the issue at hand, I asked Kanchi why we were here. “Samajko laagi! [for the community!]” was her reply, and looked at me like it should all make sense now. The crowd continued to shout incomprehensible Nepali phrases in unison at the police chief and other officers gathered on the porch.

The crowd was not only made up of women—a number of men had shown up as well. “These are men from [our village]” Kanchi told me, “and from the woman’s maithi [maternal home/village]. We’re all here to support her [sahayog dine ko laagi].” It appeared that it was the woman’s word against those of her in-laws, and the community was there to vouch for the woman. The sea of women in red and gold—many of them in their wedding saris, and all their gold jewelry designating them as married women—made a bright contrast to the overcast day and dreary, muddied police station yard. Raising fists in the air, shouting phrases together, and pushing in on the police, these women made an intimidating force.

There were a few journalists and television reporters present. I did my best to stay out of the cameras’ eyes as they interviewed the woman who had been beaten. The women had all pushed her to the front of the camera, and handed her a bottle of water to drink—all the women present were sitting a complete fast that day; by drinking water, this woman was breaking her fast, and doing her husband a disfavor.

While all that was going on, various women of the community recognized me and came over to talk—when did I get back in Nepal? How long would I be here for? How was my family? And I looked really nice in that red sari, by the way; it really became me.

A number of policemen in blue fatigues began gathering on the upper levels of the police station, watching the crowd and particularly honing in on me. Their relentless stares from behind a line of heavy black boots along the balcony edges made me feel small. I had my back to a TaTa truck used for transporting these police to various places around the city; inside various riot gear—padding, helmets, bamboo sticks—hung at the ready.

The women began to sit down in convenient places to gossip and socialize. The younger children who had come along with their mothers ran around the police yard, chasing each other and munching on chips or snack noodles, holding the colorful packages in their fists. Some of the more restless members of the group ran to the main road and threatened to enforce a chakka jam [traffic strike]. A few of the policemen put on riot gear and meandered to the street to make sure that didn’t happen. I rather suddenly noticed that there were no women police at the station. I also finally registered that none of the police were in the blue traffic uniforms either, but in the armed police fatigues.

“So why are we still here?” I asked Kanchi. “Oh, I don’t know; we’ll see,” was her reply. She began to discuss the situation on rapid village slang with the women sitting next to her. She obviously did not share my consternation, and was glad of the opportunity to socialize with relatives and neighbors and take a break from the manual labor daily required by her family's farm. I was seriously considering going back to the village, but for some reason, felt safer staying with Kanchi. I continued to sit on the porch next to her, and hopelessly follow the conversations around me.

Soon, a truckload of police in riot gear showed up. The police chief told the women that they had just come from a routine round. The police got out of the truck, but did not take their gear off—they began to just wander around the compound. A few struck up conversation with the women, who were glad to inform them why their community was at the police station.

We waited at the police station for four hours. Nobody seemed bored though; everyone but me had a rather festive attitude. The women began to make jokes about how they didn’t have the opportunity to make merry [raimailo garne] today—usually, they’d be doing puja at the temple, then singing and dancing as they sat out their fast. They would have fun the day after tomorrow, on rishi panchami, the final day of Teej. Kanchi was kept just as busy explaining who I was as she was gossiping about the current situation.

Suddenly, a police truck showed up and everyone became roused from their more relaxed positions to merge as a crowd again. Kanchi pulled me off the bench we had been sitting on, and pushed me off the porch. I turned around to see the police, in their riot gear, make a human barrier with themselves all along the open porch on which most of us had been sitting. The truck had apparently brought another family member; whether they were complicit in the beating or here to vouch for the woman, I wasn’t sure. The crowd began to shout again, but after a while, they seemed satisfied.

As quickly as we had arrived, we left. All the women piled back into the bus—which was waiting for us outside the station—and we made our way back to the village. As the women lamented the fact that they had not had opportunity to make merry as usually, the bus driver put on the latest Teej tunes, and the women standing in the bus aisle began to dance, as much as they could, in that crowded, moving bus. The women who were seated clapped and sang to the lyrics.

When we got home, I smothered Ashok—Kanchi’s son—with questions in English. What had I just been unknowingly complicit in?! He explained that the woman in question had been habitually abused by her in-laws; she had been beaten again last night and the husband and father in law had been taken to the Koteshwar jail. The whole village knew about the situation—they were neighbors after all—and they had gone to support her case. One of his female cousins then showed up to gossip more about the incident. After a while, I gave up trying to follow her rapid village slang, punctuated with hand motions, laughter and giggles, and hushed tones.

Kanchi and I eventually made it to the local mandir [temple], where Kanchi performed the required oblations to Shiva. Many of the women had gathered to sing and dance. There was a large speaker from which issued the latest Teej songs, ranging in genre from dohori git [song-duels], lok git [folk songs] to disco teej (which many of the younger school girls were excited about). Kanchi danced, and the younger girls eventually persuaded me to hand my camera to one of them so they could take pictures of me dancing.

While these are the more typical scenes of Teej—dancing and singing at the mandir while sitting out a complete fast on behalf of your husband’s wellbeing (and if you’re unmarried, then as part of requesting a good husband)—the movement at the police station was not exactly out of place either. Teej has become a platform for voicing women’s rights, especially in line with social justice. Most of the abuses women endure in Nepal come from the hands of family members, most commonly in-laws. Showing up to support a woman’s case against her husband and in-laws for beating her is now just as in line with the spirit of Teej as is taking time off from housework and labor to socialize, have fun with female friends and relatives, and pray to a deity on behalf of your husband or husband-to-be. I happened to experience both in one day. 

House Hunters International, Nepali style

I’ve never watched the reality TV show that this blog post’s title references, though I did Google it  just to give myself an idea of what its about. One of my colleagues made reference to this show in the midst of a rather hectic day of examining four different places in Patan. I guess the show makes it sound exotic (with the “international” designation). I’d say its just plain hard to look for a place wherever you are.

My colleagues found a place posted on the KTM KTM list serve—where vacancies are posted and advertised—right by Patan Dhoka, in the middle of the city we wanted to live in. I was unable to go with them on the first visit, but they came back with pictures of the spacious apartment, and described how pleased they were with the landlord. He was a young guy beginning his career in property management, and he was looking to furnish and rent this place. It was a bit pricy, but included everything—water, electricity, one gas cylinder per month, even someone to clean and do laundry—and split between the four of us, it would be affordable. As a landlord, he seemed helpful and accessible. We decided to continue looking, but keep this place in mind. We were still a little put off by the price, as it was at the higher end of what we were each looking to spend.

We were referred to a landlord through a former grantee, who potentially had rooms for rent in the middle of Patan. This landlord was more than happy to chat with us in Nepali on the details of accommodation—over a few glasses of raksi (home made rice wine) and cucumber sprinkled with cayenne pepper, provided by his wife. He was also up front that they did host parties every week, with artists, musicians, and other artsy people in attendance. That’s what came with housing fine arts students and the practice space for your son’s fusion band. I asked if a certain ethnomusicologist had also lived at this residence while conducting fieldwork. He replied the affirmative—and his wife added that this scholar also loved raksi, and ate lots of momos. And by the way, why wasn’t I drinking the raksi? I replied that I hadn’t eaten all day. She nodded her head, assenting that I was smart for not putting that hard stuff in an empty stomach. One of my colleagues discreetly poured out her alcohol under the table as this conversation ensued.

After talking among ourselves, we decided that we would rather rent a flat together than separate rooms. Though, we could still show up to this guy’s parties and go home at whatever hour we turned into pumpkins.

Working through a realtor proved to be more of a headache than a help. We were shown rather lavish apartments just outside Ring Road. With our white skin, we had a hard time making these middlemen believe that we were on a budget. Other apartments were a little more demur, like the one owned by a Nepali friend of mine in the States. She was looking for sub-letters, and asked if we might be interested. I told her we’d look. She put us in contact with her sister, who showed us the place. She couldn’t answer our questions about utilities, so took us down to the complex office to talk to a staff member.

The office was a dark, dank basement room, furnished with cast-off couches, a dinged-up desk, and a line phone. The fluorescent lights cast shadows that made me think we were either in a Dr. Who episode or a James Bond flick. We began to ask our questions to the woman at the desk: what was the average water/electricity bill per month? Oh, that depends on how much you use…

But before we got far, a tall elderly man wearing what looked like, to us, bright blue pajamas, sauntered in and began talking rapidly to the woman behind the desk. When he noticed us, he barraged her with questions in Nepali about our business: why were we here? Well, there weren’t any empty apartments now, were there; tell them so. Get their contact information so we can let them know when we do have a vacancy. We stayed silent, wondering if we should tell the guy—who turned out to be the complex owner—that we were subletting. The sister answered that she had an empty apartment; she had been showing it to us and we had questions about utilities. That’s why she had brought us to the office. The man told her she should have informed him first about the vacancy before showing it to people. He was then informed that we all spoke and understood Nepali. “Oh, you all speak Nepali?” he asked in English. He rehashed in English all that had been said in Nepali.

I decided to ask the utility bill question. Oh, that depends on how much you use per month. He went on to tell us that there was a back up generator for evening and night-time loadshedding, and if there was a shortage of water we would be notified and they would take care to order more. Yes, but how much does it all cost? I asked again. He just kept making motions with his hands, and reified that they really didn’t have any vacancies. We thanked them and left. I told the sister that I’d contact her about our final decision. 

We decided among ourselves that, as attractive as the price was, that landlord might provide a little too much drama for our tastes. I called the sister later, thanking her for her time but we had decided to continue looking elsewhere.

We revisited the “Patan Palace,” as we had termed the rather spacious place by Patan Dhoka. The landlord turned out to be a young urbanite educated at the famed Rato Bangala school, and had spent much time abroad. He wanted to go into property management, and he was starting with some family holdings. He patiently answered my questions about water (the supply was city water, but in case of a shortage, he would order a tanker), electricity (there were back-up lights in case of a power outage), and flat/compound security (his office was on the level below our apartment, and there was an arts institute and polyclinic next door so people would always be in the compound; the gate was locked at dark by the neighbors and we would be provided keys). The flat needed cleaning and furnishing, and he had a list of what would be provided. It was just the essentials, but that’s all we needed. He was ok with three of us signing the lease, and then leasing the extra room to friends of ours who would be coming through Nepal for a few months at a time. We came the next day to sign the lease—which happened to include a clause that, should an earthquake occur and the place become unlivable, we would be released from our contract. How considerate!

So my first hunt for an apartment, and signing the lease, was done in Nepal. Go figure =) 

Hidden Immigrants, Cultural Cracks, and Dr WHO?

I like Dr. Who, or “the Doctor” as he likes to be called. He travels in time and space in a blue box disguised as a 1950s police box. He has two hearts, and regenerates. Some people know him by his really, really long scarfe (that would be my dad), others by his bow tie (yes, bow ties are cool). His favorite word is “Run!” He has a sonic screwdriver that does everything and nothing. He has lots of friends and innumerable enemies. He looks very human—but he’s definitely alien.

This alien identity is something that his human companions have to figure out. They constantly yell at him about being inhuman. He just as constantly reminds them that he is NOT human. He sometimes tries to go undercover and act human—football, male-bonding, even pretending to be gay—which always makes people more suspicious, prompting more questions.

Yup, he makes a good candidate for a “hidden immigrant.”

Pollock and Van Reken, in their book The Third Culture Kid Experience, describe TCKs who look like their surrounding culture but think differently as “hidden immigrants.” When a TCK returns to their home country, where they look like the majority of the population, people presume that they are culturally the same, since they look the same on the outside. It’s often a culture shock to both the TCK and the “native” they may be interacting with when they discover differently. At a friend’s bridal shower recently, I commented how odd it was that opening gifts was the central activity; in Nepal (and many Asian cultures) it is rude to open presents in front of the giver, for fear of showing disappointment. “Oh, so they haven’t learned to fake it like we have?” the girl next to me laughed and slapped my leg in jest. I meekly replied it was just a cultural difference. This example is a more a benign crack where two cultures meet; I have experienced more disjointed or explosive ones.

Where the Doctor is from is question often asked. “I’m here, now,” is one reply he’s given. I tell people that “I currently live in Riverside” and if they pry, that “my family lives in North Carolina.” That usually shuts them up, but some go further: “But where are you from?” I might offer that I was born in West Virginia, or make them beat around the bush by saying “I’ve moved around a bit.” Some bluntly ask “where’s home?” to which I often reply “Heaven.”  

The Doctor’s identity remains a mystery. “Dr. WHO?” people ask. He might give some crazy answer about how he feels the earth spinning and hurtling through space; nothing ever stands still for him. Or, he may just not say anything, leaving the person asking in exasperation as he flies off in the TARDIS. People weave him into conspiracy theories (why else would he show up in so many state histories?), declare him alien (which he confirms), and go back and forth between viewing him as a bad guy (death follows wherever he goes) or a good guy (he eventually saves the day). I will tell people I’m American (my passport says so), and that I’m a TCK (which takes some explaining). But I’ve had people declare me “not American” (so what am I then?), “Asian” (which one?), or “an egg” (white on the outside, yellow on the inside, though for Nepal that analogy probably doesn’t quite work).

Or rather, is the Doctor’s identity being shaped as time weaves by? Could “the Doctor” be all of the above? Isn't "alien" a rather relative term? Whose to say I could be American yet not American at the same time? Born in West Virginia but never been home? A point where two (or more?) cultures meet, creating cracks in the web of culture? Heck, where’s the fun where mysteries don’t abound?

Mystery of mysteries, that God would make for me
A place within His family, though once His enemy
The Judge of every sinner sent Christ to Calvary
To prepare a place for me

Judgment should be given for this guilt upon my head
But the Father of all glory crushed His Son instead
Now I’ve been adopted, for God made this to be
You prepared a place for me

Blessed be, blessed be
My God and Savior, You’ve shown me favor
You prepared a place for me

Prepared a Place for Me

by Doug Plank

The Kingdom of Butterball: The King, the Croc and the Minotaur, Part 4

Keeping his head above water, the King was able to watch the rest of the race. The giant finally got smart and used his height to his advantage, cracking the troll on the head and knocking him out cold, so he could go and strike the gong. While the python snapped at the Brownies with his teeth and lashed out at them with his tail, his efforts were fruitless—soon the Brownies had him tied up in a knot, and his snaky skin was not armor enough against their little javelins. The giant who had fought the troll lumbered over and untied the python, completely ignoring the Brownies’ attacks, and threw the python at the gong. The black water snake plunged in to the swamp as soon as he heard the gong. In no time, the snake was neck to neck with the King.

“You seem quite fit for your age,” the water snake commented.

“I like to think that I keep my body working,” the King replied.

But it was evident after a few minutes that he was not as fit as he once was. The snake began to get the best of him, and the King fell behind several feet. Tempting as it was to drop his sword--it was quite inhibiting to his strokes--he knew he needed to keep it in hand.

"Hey Daddy--catch!"

Soon, a bright yellow blob landed in front of him. It was tied to a rope that his three daughters all held tightly. "We'll pull you to shore! We're allowed to help you, remember?"

The King reached out and grasped the bright yellow blob--it was a circular tube--and began kicking harder with his legs. His daughters ran back from the shore line, pulling as hard as they could. Soon, he passed the snake, and reached the shore in no time. The King jumped up and struck the great gong.

The note sounded sure and clear.

Giles’ whistle to signal the end of the contest could not be heard above the whoops and hollers of the Crocs, or the bellows of rage coming from the Minotaur. Princess Buttercup sounded the gong again to gain the audience’s attention. They politely silenced, but continued to wave their tails in the air. Giles bowed to the Minotaur, the Great Croc, and King of Butterball, who was now standing beside the Great Croc, wet as he was.

“Your Majesties—it would seem that the King of Butterball and his royal daughters have fairly won the contest, based on the conditions laid forth by the Great Croc and the Minotaur. As a result, the Minotaur relinquishes his hold on the Croc’s Bottleneck, and returns the jurisdiction to the Croc People, and will not contest the matter of ownership any further. If he provokes the matter again, he will be dealt with as a law breaker, as the Protocol for Breaking Laws prescribes.”

The Minotaur bowed to the Great Croc in acknowledgement. “My troops shall be withdrawn immediately. The two Butterball knights shall be released. Congratulations on a good contest.” He then bowed to the King of Butterball. “I commend you on your swimming abilities.”

“Gee, thanks!” the King bowed back.

While the Great Croc and the Minotaur continued their discussion of details, the King went over to look at the yellow blob that the Princesses had thrown to him in the water. It was made of some sort of bendy substance, and filled with air. "Where did you find this thing?" he asked his daughters.

"It was in your bag," Princess Buttercup replied. "Bryce found it. You were certainly in the middle of an emergency, so we pulled the tabs as instructed and the thing filled with air. We figured it would float, so threw it to you. Do you know if its really used for that?"

*

The King, his daughters, and the two knights arrived back at the castle just as the sun was setting, much to Queen’s joy. She rang for the Princess’ favorite dinner to be prepared immediately—macaroni and cheese, with broccoli, and grapes for dessert, with the skin removed. The knights unfortunately had to decline the Queen’s invitation to join the party—there had been a bombardier beetle sighting at a farm just outside of Hockham, and the farmer was worried about the well-being of his harvest of hay, which he had just put in his barns for winter. While the princesses waited for the dinner treat, they recounted the day’s adventure to their mother, lauding their father’s bravery, and telling all about what a wonderful host the Great Croc had been, and how much they were looking forward to their daily swimming and fishing lessons.

“What’s this? Swimming and fishing?” exclaimed the Queen.

“Yes,” the Princess Buttercup confirmed. “For his helpfulness during the contest, the Great Croc has assigned Bryce as commander of the Moat Crocs, and part of his duties is to give us daily swimming and fishing lessons.”

The Queen looked to her husband, who was smiling broadly. “Well, alright, they’re sure to come in useful.”

“However,” the King cleared his throat. “If you are to get the most out of these swimming and fishing lessons, you should pay more attention to your knitting and tea-brewing sessions. You’ll be very grateful for the scarves, blankets, hats and warm beverage after your day in the cold water.”

The End

The Kingdom of Butterball: The King, the Croc and the Minotaur, Part 3

To the Great Croc, Ruler of the Slimy Swamp, who refuses to pay the tax on the Croc’s Bottleneck and so causes himself grief by bringing upon him the wrath of the great ruler of the Perilous Forest, and his ally the King of Butterball,

From the Great Minotaur, Ruler of not only the East Side of the Perilous Forest but also of the Croc’s Bottleneck,

Greetings

I accept the challenge, and shall meet at the edge of the Slimy Swamp as agreed and outlined, upon one more condition: that the King of Butterball and his daughters be the only contestants from your side, if he wants his Knights safely returned to him afterwards.

“What!?” the King exclaimed when the Scribe had finished reading the newly arrived message. “So, this has become my challenge? Outrageous!”

“I’m afraid so,” the Great Croc apologized. “I could try and send him another message—“

“It is already early afternoon, and the Queen will be worried if we are not home by sunset,” the King grumbled. “And, I’d much rather get it over with today than draw this out till tomorrow or the next day."

“Daddy, we can help!” Princess Butterfinger chimed up. “You swim in your armor and with your sword, leave the rest to us!”

“Yeah, we’ll take care of the Brownies and the troll!” Princess Butterfly agreed. “Sissy is already a referee, so why can’t we help?”

“Absolutely not!” the King spluttered. “Its too dangerous!”

“Daddy, we’ll just do what you did to get here,” Princess Butterfinger assured him. “I’ll take care of the troll, Butterfly will take care of the Brownies. You have more chocolates and buttercups in the bag, don’t you?”

“Well, yes…but what if it doesn’t work this time?”

“We’ll figure some back up plan—just leave it to us!

At about four o’clock—thirty minutes later than agreed—the Great Minotaur arrived, with his three warriors who would be in the contest. He had a large gold ring in his nose, and the tips of his horns were plated with gold. He carried a long iron bar in his hand, using it as a walking stick but one could only guess what other uses he had for it. He met the King and the Great Croc on the shore of the Swamp. They all bowed in acknowledgment.

Giles approached the awkwardly silent group and nodded. He was decked out in a periwinkle and magenta referee’s tunic, trimmed with gold around the edges. “We are ready to begin when you are, your majesties.”

“I shall go and take my place,” the King said, and went to wait at the edge of the swamp.

He had a good vantage point. He could see the Great Croc and the Great Minotaur, sitting with their courts in the pavilion set up on the middle island. The troll challenge was to his right, the Brownies to his left. Princess Buttercup was refereeing the trolls, Princess Butterfinger was challenging the troll, and Princess Butterfly was taking on the Brownies. They were up against a giant and a python from the Minotaur’s side. He was up against a great black water snake, fitted out in a tube of armor and a cap covering his nose and back of his head. “Where’s your sword?” the Croc referee asked.

“My poison is as deadly as any sword,” the snake hissed back.

Giles blew the whistle, and the contest was off.

The troll and the giant were at it. The ground shook beneath their wrestling and pounding. The giant kept trying to get past the troll to strike the brass gong set up at the far end, but he could not; the troll kept wrapping his arms around the giant’s legs, tripping him and making him fall to the ground with great thuds. Princess Butterfinger was debating with her troll to let her past. She offered him the truffles but he shook his head and bellowed something that the King couldn’t make out between the distance and the noise. Their argument seemed to become very heated, and at one point he raised his fists as if to hit her, but then he quickly lowered them and shuffled out of the way. Princess Butterfinger walked over and struck the gong with all her might.

As soon as they heard the gong strike, the Brownies were flying at Princess Butterfly. Princess Butterfly simply let a shower of buttercups all around her, tossing them into the air out of her bag. The Brownies that were advancing on her fell to the ground sneezing, and the few that tried to get away crashed into trees as they tried to fly away with teary eyes. When the coast was clear, she walked over to the brass gong hanging from the tree at the edge of the clearing and struck it.

Now it was the King’s turn. “This is going way too easily,” he thought as he dove into the swamp, holding his sword out in front of him as he swam.

The Kingdom of Butterball: The King, the Croc and the Minotaur, Part 2

Forgive the awkward formatting; I hope it doesn't make the text too hard to read.

The King watched Sir Matt and Sir Zap trot off to his right, heading toward the south side of the forest. It was hoped that by entering the forest by the main road, they were more likely to meet some creatures and cause a ruckus. This disturbance would allow the King to enter relatively unobserved from the less conspicuous northwest side, out of sight of the town. All seemed calm and peaceful as he entered the forest. The King shifted the bag slung over his shoulder, muttering something about having to carry extra baggage.

While he had intended to fight any enemies by sword, the Queen had insisted that he take the bag handed him by the Court Magician as he made preparations to leave the castle. The King had obliged her by taking the bag. Peeking inside, the King saw the usually mess of random items that was suppose to help him accomplish his mission. Once, the man had given him a sheet of aluminum foil, some bananas and chocolate, and a mystic fire-lighter. He ended up getting lost in a wilderness and eating the bananas and chocolate, catching a ride from a passing dragon by attracting it with the shiny foil, and giving the mystic fire-lighter to the dragon because the creature was afraid of its own flame and enjoyed cooked meals instead of raw. Another time, he had been given a spindle, some hay, and a bag of peas. Unfortunately, the damsel he was rescuing had a horrible fear of pointy things--said she fell asleep for one hundred years at a time if she so much as pricked her finger--and he never found out what the hay and peas were for as his horse got hungry and ate them. This time, the Magician had given him a bouquet of buttercups, two boxes of truffles, and a bright yellow package with a "pull tabs in emergency" label on it.

Suddenly, several creatures that at first appeared to be large mosquitoes came buzzing and laughing out of the trees. “Brownies!” the King exclaimed as several small javelins stung his unguarded nose. His horse reared, ejecting the King from his seat, and galloped out of the forest. The Brownies all cheered at this victory. None noticed the buttercups that had fallen out of the King’s bag and scattered on the ground. The pollen spread in the air as the flowers rolled to the ground. Immediately, the Brownies began to rub their eyes and sneeze. Soon, they couldn’t see where they were flying so began to crash into the trees. The Brownies that could evacuated the area immediately.

“Why, I do believe they are allergic to the flowers!” the King exclaimed. The area was as deserted as it was when he entered it. He bent down, picked up a not so mangled buttercup and placed it in his chain mail shirt. “Looks like the Court Magician got something right for once.” He found an ill-trodden path and followed it deeper into the forest.

After a while, the path took him through a clearing, and split at three big boulders. The trees overhead were so thick they blocked the light from the sky, making the place quite dim and spooky. Before the King could decide which way to go, the boulders uncurled themselves and became three big trolls, each wielding a spiked club. The King drew his sword to defend himself. “You won’t need that,” one of the trolls said. “Just pay the toll.”

“And what would that be?” the King asked.

“A bite off your arm!” bellowed one.

“No, a nice juicy thigh,” said the other.

“Or, just some caramel truffles,” the last one said. “We rarely get those, and they taste ever so much better.”

“Well, I just so happen to have a box,” the King drew the package of chocolate out his shoulder bag. He extended the box to the trolls. “Would you kindly tell me which way to the Slimy Swamp?”

“To the right!” they said as they wretched the box from his hand and ripped the pink ribbon off. The King rushed passed them to the right and continued his journey.

After following the path for about thirty minutes, the foliage began to change from oaks to pines and finally to large cypress trees, their knees rising out of the algae covered water of the swamp. To the King’s right was a lichen covered log, floating in the still water. On second glance, the log was certainly green, but not lichen-covered—it was a crocodile, sunning itself in the last rays of light coming through the gaps in the forest ceiling. The King was startled to see it so close that he jumped and cried out. This woke the sleeping crocodile, who in turn jumped and yelled when he saw the King.

“Oh please, don’t tell them I was sleeping on the job!” he began to plead with the King.

“Sleeping on the job?”

“Yes, you see,” here the crocodile leaned in close to the King and whispered, “We’re having a bit of trouble with some other creatures in the Forest—“

“Another Leviathan?” the King interrupted.

“No, not a Leviathan, but a situation of similar direness. The Great Croc is currently conversing with the three Princesses of Butterball—“

“Whom I have come to collect,” the King cut the poor Croc off again. “What’s the meaning of capturing them like this?”

“They weren’t captured!” The Croc became defensive. “They agreed to visit the Great Croc at his invitation—“

“And they didn’t tell me about it?”

“The Great Croc invited the King and Queen too. The Royal Jester, who was with the Princesses, said he’d extend the invitation himself.”

That great joker, the King thought. I’ll…deal with him when I get back. He cleared his throat. “Well then, please take me to the Great Croc, and my daughters.”

The croc blinked in surprise. “Oh, yes your majesty!”

With the Croc’s permission (whose name was Bryce) the King seated himself on the animal's back, and they swam to the small island in the middle of the Swamp, which served as the central court of the Great Croc. There were several Crocs standing around talking, some wearing gold medallions, embellished leather vests or suits of armor. On a large flat rock at the far end of the island lay their leader, the Great Croc. He was chatting with the three Princesses of Butterball.

“Daddy!” they exclaimed when they saw him coming towards them. They leapt up and wrapped their arms around his neck to greet him.

“Guess what?” Princess Butterfly exclaimed. “The Great Croc wants to send some of his warriors to live in the Castle moat again!”

“And give us swimming lessons and take us fishing!” Princess Butterfinger jumped up and down.

“That’s not all,” Princess Buttercup explained. “He’s having Minotaur trouble, and wants you to defeat the Great Minotaur in battle.”

“What?” the King asked, confused.

The Great Croc let his formidable tail slide over the rock. He explained the situation more coherently. “The Great Minotaur, as you know, is the ruler of the east side of the Perilous Forest,” the Great Croc pulled out a map of his domain and spread it on the rock for the King to see. “Our Swamp borders on his realm, and there is a small part where our swamp bottlenecks and spread out again. He has taken hold of this part, where it joins the Gleaming River. This is a major problem, since that is where most of our fish supply comes from.”

“We have already tried negotiating with the Minotaur, and meeting him in battle, both which did not end well. So, I thought I’d call upon you for assistance, and accept any help you decided to give. I realize that the alliance between the Crocs and Butterball has not been honored for some time, but I was hoping you would keep it.”

“Of course,” the King replied. “Glad to help an old friend in trouble.”

“The Princess Buttercup has already given a suggestion that I think will work,” the Great Croc said.

“Yes—I suggested a contest between warriors of opposite sides!” the eldest princess said gleefully. “Not a joust or duel—they’re too boring and dangerous. More like a race with obstacles. You know, swim the length of the swamp with your armor and sword in hand, a wrestling match with a troll, and outwitting the Brownies. And make so there’s no holds barred on the contestant’s side, meaning, they can’t do anything to hinder the other contestant, but can do anything necessary to overcome the obstacles themselves. What do you think?”

“Brilliant!” the King exclaimed. “Could we make it a relay race? That way one warrior won’t have to do it all—it could be quite tiring, to swim with your armor on and sword in hand. In my younger days I could do that, but now, I might not have the strength left to wrestle a troll afterwards. But not even all young warriors can do that. Splitting the challenges up will make it fair for everyone.”

“Sounds excellent to me,” the Great Croc was satisfied. “I shall issue a challenge to the Minotaur immediately. Bryce! Prepare a flag of truce, and send the Scribe to me.”

Bryce nodded his head and crawled quickly away.

“Your Excellency—two of my knights came into the forest by the main road today,” the King told the Great Croc. “Did any of your people happen to sight them or know where they might be now?”

“No, but I can inquire after them,” the Great Croc replied. He called to another Croc. “Giles! Go with Bryce and inquire after the two knights of Butterball.” Another Croc slithered away, following Bryce.

A Croc supplied with a writing kit soon appeared. After laying out a large, thick sheet of parchment and inking his quill, he indicated that he was ready to transcribe the Great Croc’s challenge to the Minotaur:

To the Great Minotaur, Ruler of the East Side of the Perilous Forest, and fashioning himself owner of the Croc’s Bottleneck,

From the Great Croc, Ruler of the Slimy Swamp, to whose People the Croc’s Bottleneck really belongs, and the King of Butterball, ally of the Croc People,

Greetings

To settle the current border disagreement concerning the area of land commonly known as Croc’s Bottleneck (for a reason), we challenge you to a contest today to take place at half-past three in the afternoon. The winner shall claim ownership of Croc’s Bottleneck. The details are listed as follows. Please reply by half past one this afternoon.

The Kingdom of Butterball: The King, the Croc and the Minotaur, Part 1

While rummaging around in some old computer files, I found some stories I wrote for my cousins about five years ago as a Christmas present. Actually, my cousins--three sisters--were the ones to imagine the characters of the stories, and the seed to begin the plot, as part of their imaginary play. I simply transcribed and elaborated on their ideas. Below is one of them. Since this story is rather long, I'll post it in a few separate blogs for easier reading. This is definitely different that what I've posted before, but I hope you all enjoy them!

The Kingdom of Butterball:

The King, the Croc and the Minotaur

Part 1

In the Days of Yore (which happened between Hither and Thither, but after Yon), there existed a small, peaceful kingdom called Butterball. It was ruled benevolently by, who else, but the King and Queen of Butterball. They lived in a glass-frosted castle perched on a hill overlooking a very green valley, where the town of Hockham lay, bordered on one side by the Gleaming River and on the other by the Perilous Forest. While there had been such events as epic battles, black magic hunts, and dragon raids in the past, no such disturbances had occurred for at least two generations. For the most part, the people went about their daily routines in peace and happiness, enjoying the niceties of life after a hard day’s work. However, that did not mean exciting things did not happen. Many of the adventures that went on were much more thrilling than dragons.

For example, one day, the King and Queen were having their usual mid-morning snack—wheat toast with butter and marmalade, and Earl Grey tea—on the sunny balcony overlooking the fountain garden below, when the Royal Page arrived, all white faced and trembling. “Announcing the Royal Jester with an urgent message for your Majesties.”

The Royal Jester entered and bowed pompously, the bells on his multicolored hat jingling merrily. When he stood straight, the King and Queen saw that his face was white too.

“Your majesties—I was just coming back from my regular morning walk, when I saw it: the Princesses Buttercup, Butterfinger and Butterfly being taken into the Perilous Forest by two huge crocodiles!”

“What?” the King was so shocked he would have dropped the teapot had he been pouring his own tea. But the Royal Servant did that instead, and immediately began to clean up her mess.

“Whatever for?” the Queen gasped.

“Why, in my grandfather’s day, we had an allegiance with the Crocs!” the King spluttered. “We aided the other when they were in trouble. They protected Hockham from the dragons when they went out pillaging after someone stupidly raided their treasure cache, and we defeated the Leviathan who decided to take up residence in their swamp without their permission. And now they’ve gone and done the opposite! This is outrageous—“

While the King continued to rage, the Queen began to give out instructions. “Royal Servant, I think we’re done with our snack, please clear it away.” The Royal Servant piled the used dishes onto the silver tray and skipped quickly away. “Royal Page, call on Sir Zap and Sir Matt, bring them here at once, tell them its urgent,” The Royal Page bowed and fled the room.

“Why call on Sir Zap and Sir Matt?” the King asked, puzzled.

“Why, to rescue our daughters of course!”

“If anyone is doing any rescuing, it will be me,” the King announced. “What sort of king would I be sending others to fight my battles for me?”

“But this concerns all of us,” the Queen reasoned.

“But the Crocs have insulted me by taking my daughters! They obviously want to pick a fight with me—“

“But dear, you’re not young anymore. It has been at least twenty years since you have fought in battle, let alone a creature like a Croc. You will hurt yourself!”

At this instant, the Royal Page arrived, and announced Sir Zap and Sir Matt. Two tall, lean fellows entered, dressed in mail shirts covered with bright blue tunics bearing the emblem of Butterball—a bouquet of buttercups, with butter knives crossed below them. They bowed graciously. “You called for us, your Majesties?”

The King cleared his throat. “Actually, the Queen did. Our three daughters have been abducted by the Crocs of the Slimy Swamp in middle of the Perilous Forest.”

“This will never be stood for! What an outrage!” Sir Zap boomed.

“We shall go rescue them, my Liege!” Sir Matt drew his sword.

“Humph! I will be rescuing them,” the King stated

The Queen rolled her eyes.

“But I do need your help,” the King continued. “You will create a diversion.”

Punishment? Or Alternative Assignment?

“If you don’t do the reading, and you don’t turn in your response paper on time,” our instructor threatened, “then your punishment will be performing one of your traditional dances for five minutes in front of the class!”

I came back to my dorm room one afternoon to find my Pakistani roommate slothing through the reading assignment. “There are so many words here that I don’t know,” she stated. I looked to see the words “indigenous” and “powwow” circled in the first paragraph of her copy of the reading. “I’m thinking that dancing for five minutes would be so much easier—I mean, I can dance for thirty minutes, no problem!”

Dancing for five minutes in front of the class would be punishment for undergraduates at UCR enrolled in some cultural arts class. But in a similar class where students harken from Pakistan, South Korea, Myanmar, Philippines, and Malaysia, and all are specialists in some aspect of their “indigenous” arts, dancing for five minutes in front of the class may not be seen as “punishment,” but an alternative assignment—and one that takes less effort and energy! Leave the reading and response writing to the two white Americans in the class who have advanced English language capabilities and no dance moves!

Well, while she did, in the end, decide to do the reading and the written response, we still got to see our Pakistani classmate do two dances as “punishment” for being late, as well as one monologue as Lopakhin from Anton Chekov’s “The Cherry Orchard.” She’s one talented artist, to say the least.

"Does your mother know?!"

I was at a friend’s house recently, for a movie night, where I was a complete stranger to everyone else who showed up. I was introduced as a fellow church member who had been working abroad for the past eight months or so in Nepal. One young lady’s reaction was particularly intriguing.

“Don’t tell me you went by yourself!” she exclaimed rather unexpectedly.

I assured her that I had in fact gone by myself.

“Did your mother know? What did she think about it?!”

I assured her that mother had in fact been quite excited for me, since she had raised me there as a child. She thought it had been a wonderful opportunity to return and reconnect with friends from my family's previous time there.

The young lady didn’t seem to have anything more to say, but looked at me with blank, almost hysterical, amazement.

What perplexed me more than anything was this young woman was probably not much older than I; what business did she have to scold me so? Looking back, I was in jeans and my college sweatshirt, and introduced as a UCR student. She probably thought I was much younger than I actually am. Note to self: I should emphasize graduate student, and apparently need to work on looking older. I guess that means wearing make-up and heels regularly. Bleh.

People’s reactions to learning that I was about to spend eight months on my own in Nepal had solicited similar reactions. Was it politically stable? What did people think of Christians there? Was it safe for young, white women? Many assumed I would be shot or kidnapped. I assured them that I had more of a chance of getting shot or kidnapped here in the States than in Nepal. I was welcomed back to Riverside from my stint in Nepal in 2009 with text messages from UCR’s security warning everyone that an armed robber was running rampant on campus, and newspaper headlines about shootings on Perris Blvd in the neighboring town, which I drove passed at least twice a week. I’m glad I’m covered by the prayers of my Nepali brothers and sisters every day I’m outside the country of Nepal.

When people ask me what I did in Nepal, I reply that I worked at a small NGO involved in language and literacy development. My jobs mostly entailed editing English documents—annual reports, drafts of grants, my Nepali boss’s articles, various forms that are supposed to amount to ‘accountability’ for foreign donor agencies—but I also re-did bulletin boards, made photocopies, collected and edited material for the website, phoned liasons at embassies, mingled with linguists and politicians, and made numerous trips to various partner agencies in and out of the Kathmandu Valley, where I was based.

After a confused look, they usually tentatively ask, “…and you said you were a missionary?”

Who do they think does all this necessary footwork? Is my usual thought. My work for this NGO wasn’t too different than what office staff at my sending agency back in the States do everyday. At least once, I should take a friend’s advice and tell inquirers, “Well, you know, I performed miraculous healings and cast out demons on the weekends; all that office work was just a cover for my real work.”

However, another friend’s wise advice rings loud and clear during these times of temptation—“Grace, Tori, display grace”—bringing me back to the reality that I, though justified, am still in the process of santification myself. I should be the one thanking these people for being instruments of God’s sanctification in my life rather than nashing my teeth at them on the inside…

When an American and a Korean get together, in which language do they communicate?

…Nepali, of course!

One of my unexpected friendships in Nepal has been with a young lady from South Korea who currently volunteers at Salvation Worship Ministries—the same organization I did much of my research through two summers ago. She goes by “Jyoti”—the Nepali word for “light”—as her Korean name is a difficult for Nepalis to pronounce. While she is currently learning English, she is more comfortable communicating in Nepali, so that’s the language we use to talk to each other. This amuses our Nepali friends to no end, especially the guys at Salvation with whom I communicate in English.

We began talking at the fellowship SWM hosts on Saturday afternoons, and she mentioned that she wanted to have me over for a meal after all her guests—short-termers staying at her place—left. I received a text from her one Saturday afternoon, asking if I was free to come over after fellowship. I said sure. The evening ended up being one of unexpected sweet fellowship with another sister—all through a language that is “foreign” to both of us!

I was impressed with Jyoti’s soft and malleable heart towards God. She shared—over a meal of spaghetti in a cream sauce, with Coke to drink—a little about how she had come to work in Nepal. She had come on a short-term trip in 2008, and at that time met people from SWM. They were looking for a sound engineer to come and help them out in the newly opened studio. She was a piano major at university, but after going back to Korea, she began praying, and felt that God was leading her toward computer music composition, which involved sound engineering. She changed her major, but then God told her to take a rest from her studies and go to Nepal for two years. She did so, and has ended up doing studio work for SWM.

“I keep asking God ‘why me?’” she confessed. “There are tons of better sound engineers out there, in Korea and in Nepal!” But she has felt privileged to do the work she’s been able to do, and amazed at God’s goodness in working through her.

Does she desire to return to Nepal? Of course, however, she is now engaged to married to a young Korean man—who is also working in Nepal right now, providing IT support in rural areas—who has a desire to go work in Turkey. Jyoti informed me that before he mentioned going to Turkey, God had been steering her heart in that direction as well. His parents have approved of their decision to marry, and it seems that they will go forward with that once they return to Korea.

Jyoti is endeared to all the guys who work at SWM. “I am going to bawl out loud at the airport when you leave,” Solomon told her one day when I visited the institute, “just like this—“ and this 30-year old man began giving a very impressive imitation of a two-year-old temper tantrum.

Raju, a young college student, takes his role of younger brother very seriously. “Jyoti cannot say my name right because she cannot say ‘r,’ ” he announced over tea one day. “So, it comes out as “Laju!”’ He then gave her a sequence of Nepali words where ‘r’ was key to pronunciation—change it to an l and the meaning completely changes. “Oh, can you say ‘rato’? No! No! ‘Lato’ mean “stupid and dumb,” I want you to say ‘rato’ which means 'red'!”

Prakash has been impressed by her consistent temperament. “You know, some people have serious mood swings—really sad, really happy—but Jyoti, she’s consistent. She’s always joyful, always smiling, always pleasant.” He also recollected, “When Jyoti was learning Nepali, we had such a good time with her! She made some pretty funny mistakes, and we gave her a hard time about it.” He ended with “we’re really proud of her Nepali language now.”

In working with a bunch of guys who know how to push buttons, Jyoti’s sweet temperament and un-shy determination to learn a new language has paid off by blessing those around her.

As I took a round-about way back to my place in Dhobighat, I marveled at how wonderful my evening had been. Sweet fellowship with a Korean sister, all through the Nepali language!

"Please, manage your time, and come to my wedding!"

I had walked into a lively meeting about how the music ministry and school was to be run, now that Pankaj was leaving for the States in less than a week to get married. Ask the landlady if a gate to the upstairs can be installed; the office will move up there and the gate will keep things secure. That computer needs a password put on it; right now, just anyone can walk into the room and use it. Now, about those dwindling finances….well, looks like we’ll have to economize and provide no more snacks, just tea. Should we start taking up an offering at fellowship? One guy joked that the fellowship already resembled a church service minus the offering; the offering would make it just like a church service!

And oh, Hari, he’s getting married tomorrow. Who’s coming to the wedding? Its four hours away, as his bride is from another town. Tori, are you coming?

“Is he really getting married?” I asked. They had been teasing Hari about getting married since I had left Nepal two years ago. I half disbelieved them.

Hari pulled a pile of cards out of his backpack, shuffled through them, found one to his satisfaction, and clicked his pen open. “Who’s that for?” someone asked.

“For her,” Hari jerked his head in my direction. Someone else laughed, probably Solomon. “How do you spell her name?”

“T-O-R-I,” Pankaj named the letters, “D-A-Z-E—“

“No, D-A-L-Z,” I corrected him.

Now it was Sunil’s turn to laugh. “Pankaj never gets names right!”

Hari finished writing and handed the invitation to me with both hands. My last name was still missing an “l” at the end. It was the invitation not to his wedding, but to a reception at Patan church on Thursday. “My sister is getting married on that day,” he said, “but the reception is for both of us. Please manage your time, and come.”

This wedding was the third one I had been invited to within the eight months I had been in Nepal. The others had been two Rai siblings, who I also knew through the music ministry. I was on my way to work one day, and a motorcycle pulled up beside me. “This is good luck, I have something to give you!” it was Ashish, and he pulled out a wedding invitation with my name on it. “Bishwas, my older brother, is getting married tomorrow. Can you come?”

Turns out, I did know this older brother—he had been coordinating the Putalisadak English language service the last time I was in Nepal. I figured I should attend his wedding, and my boss kindly gave me the afternoon off so I could do so. There, his sister, Anu, informed me that their eldest sister would be getting married next week, at Putalisadak. “You should come!” she urged. So I had attended that one too.

In attending these weddings, I was able to observe how Nepali Christians conduct these affairs. In American, and I would assume most Western, weddings, much is made of the bride and groom. Here, I noticed, it was very much about two congregations—two families—being joined together. The pastors from each church would give a full on sermon concerning what marriage meant to Christians—a picture of Christ and his church, completing God’s image of man of woman joined together, the need for a husband to love his wife and the wife to respect her husband—but emphasizing too the importance of community, and how these couples fit into the life of the church. More than one story was told of failed “love marriages” where parents and elders were not consulted or the community not involved in the decision.

This emphasis on community was also awkwardly present in the way the ritual aspects of the ceremony were conducted. Much was done to the couple, but not by the couple. Elders from each church would officiate these various aspects—deciding two or three times where and how the couple should stand when exchanging vows, abruptly calling for whoever was giving the bride away and if anyone objected to this union, and overseeing the signing of the marriage license (which, I’m not sure is for congregational record purposes or if this was the piece of paper from the local government office as well), and then leading the collective prayer after all this had been completed. The congregation would participate in a short praise and worship session as well, the songs not necessarily about weddings but always Gospel centered.

At each of these weddings, a song has been sung to the new bride as well. Members of the music ministry have consistently been the ones to sing this song. There have been jokes passed around about being the up-and-coming wedding band, or producing an album of wedding songs. And like any self-respecting musicians, they got paid in wedding food.

Return to Bhaktapur, and madal lessons!

I took the bus to Bhaktapur this morning, the first in two weeks. It hasn’t changed. It was still crowded with people on their way to work, students going to class, and piles of fruits from the wholesale market on their way out to town to be sold. The only thing we were missing in our assembly were chickens or a goat. The price is still 20 rupees one way.

Ravi opened the courtyard door for me—the first student of the day. “Do you always stay here?” I asked him. “No, I’m just on duty today from 6 to 10.” He opened the upstairs studio, unlocking the door and opening the shutters on the windows. “Bhajaunus,” he said as he went back down to the courtyard.

I was a little rusty, not having practiced for two weeks. While I worked on rhythm patterns, I could hear Ravi’s flute in the courtyard below.

Buddhalal shadowed the door at 8:55. “Namaste! Are you well?”

“Yes, I’m well. And you? Are you well?”

“No, I’m not well…I have a cough, my head hurts, and I have a fever.”

“Why didn’t you call me then?” I asked surprised.

“You haven’t been here in a while,” was his reply. “Play!”

After demonstrating that I knew the rhythm of “Basanta” somewhat well, he called Ravi up from the courtyard. “I can’t play flute today, I’ll start coughing,” he said, “so you’ll play with Ravi.”

Ravi came up and seated himself by the door. Buddhalal gave him some instructions in Newar, which amounted to seeing if he could play the correct tune. After some agreement as to who was to start and how many bars I was to leave off before entering, we played through it.

The secretary’s young assistant arrived for work and decided to sit with us a while. Not only did I have an accompanist (the madal is the lead instrument for many of these tunes, I’m discovering), and my instructor, but now, an audience member. In previous weeks, it had been similar. There had been more than one Friday where the secretary decided to visit my lesson while he had his afternoon tea, and comment on my playing or have some chitchat with my instructor in Newari. Not to mention the fact that the windows have no glass or screens, the door is always open, and the sound of the drum can be heard all over the school’s courtyard. If only this kind of thing had happened when I was taking piano lessons in college, maybe I would have gotten over my shyness of playing in front of people more completely.

Then, Buddhalal decided that, since we had a good flute player with us that day, we would play through some of my other tunes. We pulled out Manghal Dhun and Ghatu. I wasn’t about to attempt Holi—I told Buddhalal that was the hardest one and I hadn’t practiced it in a while. “Well, practice that this week, and play it well the next time you come,” he told me. "You're doing well. Now, you just need to play phurtilama." I gave him a puzzled look, so Ravi said in English "with energy."

“Now, for a new tune…which one to teach?” Buddhalal mused a moment. I wanted to say “an easy one, not a complicated one,” but kept my mouth shut. Finally, he said, “Resham Firiri.” I almost rolled my eyes. Of all traditional tunes, that is the one overplayed. But again, what kind of madal player would I be if I didn’t know that tune? And it was definitely easy.

“La, that’s enough for today,” Buddhalal said. “And my tabla student is here.”

“If you’re sick again on Friday, call me,” I told him. He nodded his head as he left the studio and walked down to the courtyard.

Traveling in Nepal never ceases to be interesting...

I’d never flown domestic in Nepal.

The workshop coordinator decided to fly me out to Dhangadhi (he and his team had come a few days before), because it would mean “less wear and tear” as he put it. There’s a definite difference in taking a one-hour plane trip verses a fifteen-hour bus ride. And with the uncertain political situation, that seemed that safest way to get there too.

But the domestic plane trip was still something new.

First of all, the domestic side of Tribhuvan International Airport was filled with very wealthy Nepalis—the kind whose daughters wear chic Western designer outfits and high heeled shoes, and who slip between Nepali and English unawares in the middle of their conversations—most of whom were going to Pokhara on holiday. In contrast were the tourists, with their trekking boots and oversized backpacks; most had unshaven faces or unwashed hair. I was directed by an airport aid to the counter to pay the airport tax of 170 rupees—the posted price is 169.50, but since no one works in paisa anymore, everyone just pays a flat170--and then sat down to wait for my flight to be called.

There were a handful of people going to Dhangadhi, among them some UMN people working at the Doti cluster. They recognized me from the exposure trip to HS-Nepal in Dang at the beginning of my time there. We were put on a transit bus with the other passengers to be taken from the terminal to our airplane at a runway a little further off. Our baggage followed in a cart behind us. “Oh, I wonder how many bags are on top my mine,” the foreign UMN worker commented to me. “I hope my strawberries don’t get squished! Maybe they’ll be jam by the time we arrive!”

The plane seated perhaps 20 people max. I was one of the last people to get on, so took the one seat remaining—the very front one. I could see into the cockpit. Our primary pilot was a woman, donning a nose piercing, manicured nails, and aviator sunglasses. I watched the altitude meter rise to the cruising height of 16,500 feet. The flight was long enough for peanuts and Coke to be passed around.

As we landed on the runway, the dingy “Dhangadhi Airport” terminal was the only building in sight. We walked out on the tarmac and were directed by a policeman to a chain gate where we waited in the shade of a pipal tree for our luggage was brought to us. The foreign UMNer hoped their vehicle won’t be long in coming, or her butter would melt in the Terai heat. The UMN people kindly took me to the main road (there are no taxis or transport available at the airport proper) where I got a bus into Dhangadhi. From the stares I got from the people already on the bus, I must have looked like rifraf with my big black trekking backpack and slightly sunburnt face. From the Dhangadhi bus park, I called Shyam for instructions on what to do next. He advised I get a rickshaw to the hotel at which the workshop was to take place; most rickshaw drivers would know where the Hotel Bidya was located.

Traveling back to Kathmandu was even more interesting. I traveled with Kumar and Shyam this time, and we thought we would be late—adding up the expenses of two workshops took a little longer than expected. We just took a vehicle from the hotel this time. I got the privilege of sitting in front, and watching the driver swerve and maneuver around bicycles, rickshaws, buses, oxcarts, and the occasional goat that decided to try and cross the road. At the airport, members of Nepal’s armed police force searched our bags, then let us into the dingy building. After checking in at the counter, we found a place to conveniently stand while we waited for our flight to be called.

I noticed then that there were two doors in front of me, one marked “men” and one marked “women” with “exit” written between the doors, all in Nepali. I thought this to be a little odd. I soon saw, as passengers to the flight before ours lined up, that these were frisking rooms. Everyone went in, one at a time, to the policeman or policewoman waiting inside, then seemed to disappear, as the policeman or woman would reappear at the door for the next person. When my turn came, it actually wasn’t bad—the policewoman checked my hand luggage, and then lightly ran her hands under my arms, down my legs, and patted my sides and back. I felt more respected as a person than at some Stateside airports I’d been through.

Claiming luggage at the Kathmandu airport felt like being at an auction house. Everyone crowded around the carts that held the luggage, waving their baggage claim tickets and yelling at the luggage handlers as to which bag was theirs. Kumar ended up being closer to the front than I, so I gave him my ticket to claim my bag. We were assailed by five different taxi drivers as we came out into the parking lot. Kumar finally found one who would drop all three of us off at our respective locations for 700 rupees. After the two Nepali men left the vehicle, the driver began freely talking to me in Nepali (he must have heard the three words I spoke to Shyam where we sat in the backseat). He was full of questions—how long had I been in Nepal? Where was I from? I spoke good Nepali; how long had it taken me to learn it? So why did I travel with the two guys that he dropped off before me? And what kind of work were we doing? I answered discreetly that I was involved in language development, and that my office worked closely with the one the others were affiliated with, so we had traveled together.

Traveling in Nepal never ceases to be interesting.