The Vanishing...

Well, I have survived the madness of yet another Deshain, (holiday that many westerners refer to as the ‘Nepali Christmas’) Though each of my experiences has been quite different, for most Nepali people Deshain follows a very consistent pattern: Slowly the streets of Kathmandu become deserted as people haul themselves and their families back to their village homes in rural Nepal. Defying death on buses overflowing with livestock and human cargo, they travel unstable roads at the mercy of hardened drivers; never flinching even as the ancient, steel machine begins to whine as it rises up onto two wheels on the edges of ravines; they suffer the heat and the stench, the dust of the roads, and the sweat of the trek that only ends when they finally reach the homes of their extended relatives. They come bearing saris and cigarettes, alcohol and over-ripened fruits, and most importantly, an abundance of anything denim. They will sing and dance; swap tikka and hand out cash, all the while guzzling the foul local moonshine known as raksi; for this is the tradition of Deshain.

My Deshain, though in accordance with all the terms I have listed above, was tainted by an appalling incident, so foul, so uncouth that even as I begin to record it for you I can feel my jaw tightening and bowels clenching. My entire cerebrum begins to vibrate with rage at the fact that, in this culture, I am unable to retaliate with the proper acidity (or violence) with which I would feel completely justified. But, I’m getting ahead of myself.

Due to our final move from the haven with hot water, Kasang and I had to spend nearly a week in Kathmandu getting our affairs in order before we returned to the village for the Deshain festivities. We packed our things and bought the aforementioned denim items before trundling back to Gurje with bulging sacks full of our belongings strapped all over the bike and our backs. We arrived as always, haggard and cranky, ready for a meal and a rest only to be met with the shocking news that Lucky, our recently adopted dog, was missing.

“HOW LONG?!” I shouted rudely to Kasang’s mother. (I immediately regretted it after realizing that she was just as distraught as I was.) She said that she couldn’t be sure because when we were gone it wasn’t unusual for him to wander off for a day or two, but she hadn’t seen him for at least five or six days. I was stunned into silence, for I knew without looking at Kasang’s grave expression exactly what he was thinking. “Maybe he went back to wherever he lived before we found him,” I said hopefully. Kasang looked doubtful. “Well, it’s possible!” I said defensively. He just sighed heavily and looked at me with a pained expression on his face. After a few more minutes of my distraught jabbering and cheesy optimism he finally let me have it: “he could have been eaten by a tiger.”

“That’s crap!” I replied heatedly, “I’ve never seen a tiger here before,” conveniently forgetting that one of his own childhood pets suffered that particular fate while wandering around outside at night.

I was convinced Lucky would wander back eventually. Even after we heard that he was last seen wandering alone into the jungle, I refused to believe he could be dead. Then after about two weeks, I finally lost hope. I broke down in front of Kasang’s family as he was explaining to me how that kind of thing was just a fact of life in the village and that someday he would get me a new dog. I said I didn’t want another dog unless it was a huge, man-eating beast that could fend off any jungle animal that would dare challenge it, to which everyone laughed and I just became more embittered.

I suppose that Kasang’s little sister didn’t want me to brood too long over the loss because a few days later she returned from her uncles’ house with a fetus resembling a puppy. It couldn’t have been more than three or four weeks old (not that I pretend to know anything about these things, it was just too damn small and feathery to be anything but a newborn). I tried to hide my exasperation; I had no desire to be made responsible for a creature I was sure would be utterly dependent on me for 24 hour care. I didn’t want to feed it warm milk or pick up it’s shit in the house, and most of all I didn’t want a new dog; I wanted Lucky back. But, I also didn’t want to walk eight ours up and down treacherous jungle paths to return the puppy to a family who didn’t want it anyway, so I suggested that we name it survivor. Though I knew it was unreasonably difficult for a Nepali person to pronounce, I felt the name was apt since it had somehow lived through the epic journey to Gurje (during which he was stuffed in a backpack), but then I thought better of it and decided we had plenty of time to think of an appropriate name that the villagers could actually pronounce. We had the puppy for two days when I finally discovered the true story behind Lucky’s disappearance.

October is a month in which you would naturally expect surprises, tricks and treats, and maybe some generally mild horrors to take place; however I did not expect a treacherous betrayal of such a cruel and despicable magnitude as the one which was to befall me this month. It turns out that Lucky had not “wandered off” as we had originally thought, but rather was lured with snacks to another far off village by a co-worker of ours where he was then held hostage throughout the Deshain festival. This man, Udaya, who is employed by our same INGO as a cook for the school children in the village, had the outrageous balls to kidnap our dog and then lie to our faces about it. Apparently, the only reason that we even saw Lucky again was because he was so whiney while tied up and when eventually released instantly dashed off back to Gurje (the fact that we feed him better than most of the children in the village is immaterial!) the point is he came straight back home to us because that’s where he wants to be.

We might have never have even known the real story if not for Udaya’s gabby little daughter who gossiped about it to the other children. When confronted with the truth Udaya confessed to the kidnapping and claimed that he thought it wouldn’t be a big deal. Kasang told him it was completely rude and inconsiderate, but Udaya only shrugged and said he wouldn’t do it again. He gave no reaction when we pointed out that Lucky had obviously been underfed and never apologized for the obvious grief he had caused us. I was, of course, appalled and enraged at his response, but what could I do? Kasang explained how pets in the village don’t carry the same importance that they must in the United States. I told him that was a gross understatement and remain to this day just as pissed as I was when we first discovered the truth about what I still consider to be a heinous theft.

That’s the exasperating reality of life here and I still can’t shrug it off. Sometimes there’s just nothing you can do; you have to swallow your feelings and just go on. I’ve gotten used to the mud and shit, washing with water that freezes you straight down to your spleen, the rice and lentils morning noon and night; but once in a while things happen that just slap you straight back to the idea that you’re truly deep down in it, for good or ill. When I listen to music and paint, or eat my hoarded western chocolate, I am whisked away to an oasis of sanity that I often take for granted. At those brief moments I am insulated against the filth and rot, the poverty in which I am now living. Then someone kidnaps my dog, or I run out of toilet paper for two weeks, or rats attack my stash of foreign snacks, and there’s no one I can hold responsible; then I return to the realization that, christ, I have to live like the rest of these poor bastards. Perhaps a bigger person than myself might be proud of that fact, but it scares the hell out of me. Of course, when I began to feel that sudden, familiar sense of panic, I decided that there was only one sure-fire way to fight it off: a marshmallow roast.

Yes, thanks to Jill (awesome, awesome Jill), I was able to somewhat celebrate Halloween with a sticky campfire that lived up to any and all expectations. I knew it was a success when one of the kids said that he couldn’t eat another marshmallow or he’d puke; that and no one set themselves on fire. I’d go into more detail, but I think that the photos are pretty self explanatory. The marshmallows along with a massive bamboo swing that Kasang and I paid to construct, (which typically accompanies the Deshain festival) has only supported the age old truth that real fun involves endangering one’s health or survival. It has also made the two of us temporary super-heroes to the children of the village. I guess being mildly exalted is some consolation after the crap fest that ensued after Lucky’s disappearance, but only time will heal my bitterness.

For now I’m back to painting and working for the INGO (and nursing that damned new puppy). We’ve recovered from the endless walking and our tikka hangovers. Kathmandu has returned to its perpetual state of over crowdedness. The streets have once again become dusty, stench ridden, human cattle drives and the hoards have returned to their every day routines. That is, until Tihar, the Nepali new year, when the pendulum will swing back the other way and rather than desert the city, people will flock to it seeking the madness and debauchery that the villages can’t offer. They will take to the streets drunken and flailing to sing for cash at every house with its lights on. But, that’s another story, for next time. What’s yours?

Hearts and minds; BBQ and baseball

I have always been a supporter of respecting the culture that one has chosen to immerse oneself and trying to assimilate as much one can, but now that I have developed a lengthy relationship with the community of the village as well as its way of life, (and have eaten a variety of horrific dishes in spite of myself) I can inject a little excitement in the form of American traditions without feeling guilty or domineering. It wasn’t premeditated, but now that the weather here is imitating spring I feel that it could have had a subconscious influence on me; that, and cricket sucks.

One Saturday afternoon, I happened to see a group of little boys trying to play cricket. As I watched them struggle hopelessly with the sticks they were trying to use as wickets I was overcome by frustration and pity. I thought of my friend Max who said that cricket was just “baseball’s ugly cousin.” I finally couldn’t stand it any more and made Kasang help me corral the children to an open area nearby. Forgetting the horror and shame I experienced as a child in little league, I enthusiastically explained the game all the while telling Kasang how immeasurably superior baseball is to cricket. (Not necessarily because baseball is that great, but more because cricket is so painful to watch.)

Armed with a tennis ball and broken piece of two-by-four, I did my best to explain it all. I knew I was successful when they started to heckle the batters, even their own teammates. It was great. (I had been shouting “hey batter batter batter..!” and they tried to imitate me, but it sounded more like “’ay ba ba baha!” It was pretty much the cutest thing I’ve ever seen.) Aside from the ball occasionally landing in a giant dung heap or getting lost in a monstrous thorny bush near by, everything went smoothly and the kids have been transformed into baseball lovers. And, more importantly, now I don’t have to learn how to play cricket; ah, success!

In addition to baseball, I have also brought barbeque to Gurje (see photo). While shopping for chutney, I found ‘American Style BBQ Sauce.’ I was wary, as I usually am of anything in this country that claims to be ‘American style,’ but it turned out to be pretty good. Kasang and I bought some chicken after I explained that BBQ sauce would NEVER taste right on water buffalo meat. We made a makeshift grill out of a bunch of metal skewers weighed down with big rocks over a pit filled with charcoal. It worked pretty well, but I didn’t realize how well until we were done eating and everyone had large amounts of BBQ sauce smeared somewhere on their face. His youngest sister had a whole mustache of it. I felt more at home at that moment than I have in a long, long time. But, it wasn’t until the next night that I realized what a huge success it had actually been. We arrived at his family’s shop to find a recently gutted chicken, bought from a neighbor, waiting for us. Though a whole plucked chicken, including the head and feet, with a bowl of blood next to it is far less than mouth-watering, in this context it represented not just a compliment to my cooking, but serious praise for American culinary innovation. (If anyone has any tips on marinades or homemade sauces, or even potato salad recipes, please mail them to me so I can further enlighten my village family.)

And speaking of further enlightenment, thanks to my awesome friends Christy and Jill, I will soon be able to introduce some of the local children to the fabulous jet puffed marshmallow –thanks again guys, you’re totally awesome! I’ll be sure to send some photos in my next mail (hopefully not including a passed out child suffering some sort of sugar induced aneurism or me with my hair on fire after an attempt to make smores went horribly wrong.) I suppose any activity involving children as well as large amounts of sugar and fire could always end in catastrophe… It’s a risk I’m willing to take. If I have the willpower perhaps I’ll wait untill Halloween (I have been trying to devise an activity to make the day special, but the hypnotic allure of roasted marshmallows may cause me to accelerate my plan…)

In the meantime I will be transferring the very last of my belongings to my home in the village. It affected me more than I thought it would when I finally arranged the last of my things on the muddy shelves. It seems when a person spends as much time on the move as I do, she becomes more than normally attached to the few tangible things she can call her own. Or perhaps I am only trying to justify an abnormal obsession with my dwindling American toiletries, but as usual, I digress.

The apartment in Kathmandu (with the hot shower) is no longer available to me. This seals my imminent, full time return to the strife and struggle of cold village reality. Of course, it’s not too cold just yet, and I welcome the long hot agony that October’s afternoons will supposedly bring. Plus, now that I have purchased a decent bed including blankets and pillows that don’t suck, the weather has improved significantly, and BBQ has become available, I have a much more positive attitude about full time village life.

As you can see by the photo, the view has also improved drastically. I wake up and right outside my window are those crystal clear mountains. And, more importantly, behind our house we have no neighbors or any other type of human chancres to spoil our view. The neighbors across the path in front of us however, do play traditional Nepali music on their staticky radio at five in the morning at top volume. Imagine waking up to the female version of Alvin and the chipmunks set to small bongos and a Salvation Army’s Santa bell; it’s unpleasant at any time of day and that unpleasantness is only enhanced by the amount of static on the radio and the hour at which it is blasted out of the house. The plus side to this irritant is that I don’t feel guilty occasionally blasting some classic rock out of our house when I’m beating my laundry against a big rock in the yard. “We’re an American band!” Nobody seems to mind the volume or me singing along at the top of my lungs. Thanks to my good friends Craig and Kathleen, I now have plenty of music that, were I at home, I might shout along with while driving to work.

I suppose I’ll leave you with that bizarre image of me aggressively scrubbing my clothes in that primitive fashion in a purely rural setting, all the while ‘rocking out’ to Credence, Bob Dylan, Queen, and ACDC (I know the last two aren’t American, but lets not split hairs.)

A different Kind of orphan...

Lost and emaciated, he began randomly following me around the village with a pathetically hopeful look in his little brown eyes. I could tell he was severely underfed. He was all alone and seemed so desperate for attention; it broke my heart just to look at him. Despite his wretched condition, he also seemed to be quite clever and alert; so my boyfriend, Kasang and I decided to take him home and do our best to care for him and at least get him back on his feet, whatever that means here. Since he is a wild dog, there’s obviously a lot less to worry about than when you have a pet at home: If he runs away, I won’t need to worry where he will find his food; it just means he’s chosen to go back to the freedom of his old life. If we want him to sleep outside, we don’t have to feel guilty about it, he’s probably never slept inside before anyway. I don’t need to keep him on a leash because there are no cars for him to get hit by and no rude, over weight animal services officer around to give me a ticket. Then again, Kasang pointed out that there are other risks involved with pet ownership in the village; the possibility of it getting eaten by a tiger, for example, or even gored by an angry water buffalo. Perhaps it’s best just to focus on the advantages.

At first Kasang wanted to name him ‘cranky’ simply because he likes to call me that too if I get grouchy about the food or the weather here, but the villagers couldn’t pronounce it and kept calling him ‘Clinky’ (a soft ‘D’ instead of an ‘L’ sound) so I suggested ‘Lucky’ instead, since it’s easier for them to say and then I won’t be so tempted to laugh in the face of a person trying to call our dog. Plus, Lucky is more than fitting, since he is lucky in more ways than one, particularly that we feed him and I’m constantly giving him biscuits. I’m hoping to train the hell out of him since we are together so often and the kids in the village absolutely love it when I make him sit and shake and walk on his hind legs. (They are also very impressed that he speaks English :) When we have to leave the village for a few days we just have Kasang’s mom feed him for us for a few days untill we get back. We even have to tie him up now when we leave so that he doesn’t chase the motorcycle back to Kathmandu with us!

Besides dog training, I’ve been keeping very busy with our projects in the village. The re-building of the school is complete and I’m nearly finished with the mural I’m painting on the outside. It’s been extremely difficult conditions to work in. Wet walls are not ideal for painting (more mud and manure) and though we supposedly only have a few weeks of heavy rain left, for the time being it still feels like I’m in the middle of a bible story where everyone’s being punished for their sins by a constant, bitter deluge. Despite the challenges however, (including having to use kerosene as paint thinner after we ran out of turpentine, that stuff dries out your skin like gangbusters), I think the mural is shaping up nicely; just a few more adjustments and we’ll be all done.

I’ve also been hard at work making my ‘studio’ as cheaply fabulous as possible. (Did I say fabulous?) Perhaps a more appropriate adjective would be workable. But, my definition of fabulous has broadened significantly since moving to Gurje (where electricity and running water is fabulous). I have just completed an abstract landscape that I am quite excited about, as soon as it’s dry I will photograph it and send it along for your approval. I hope I’m not abusing any friendships by asking for help getting my artwork noticed, but there’s just only so much I can do from here. I’ve been trying to enter contests on line, but it seems that most of them want at least a $30 entry fee and I just can’t spare it at the moment (I have antibiotics to buy!). Now that I have truly committed to the long hot agony of trying to keep alive on my artwork, I think that I will have to shamelessly and constantly ask for help and advice of anyone willing to give it. I hope you don’t mind.

Anyway, I suppose there’s no big news this time, but the rains are supposed to be coming to an end and perhaps when work gets back to normal I’ll have a little bit more to write about. Until then, the kids are doing great, I’m pretty healthy (aside from a gigantic leech bite on my ass –don’t ask) and I hope to be writing again soon with some more artwork to show you, until then I remain: your wet little artist village hermit,

-j

Passport puberty...

My passport got its first set of insert pages this week. This last month has been busy as usual, perhaps even more than usual, but the main highlight was visiting the American embassy, slapping my little gold and blue baby on the counter and saying, “I ran out of room for stamps." The knowledge that I have traveled to a sufficient number of countries and obtained enough visas to fill my 21 page time capsule, makes me almost as proud as I am of the other work I've done here over the past year. It makes it all that much more real. Now there is a record, legally endorsed by the immigration departments of over 9 countries, that I've busted my ass in one way or another nearly all over the world. Go me.

I had another rare experience this last week, thoroughly less pleasant, and upon reflection, upsetting enough to completely overshadow my exciting embassy experience. I have often been speculating about my future here in Nepal and have admitted to myself that it will be impossible for me to continue as I have been for much longer. It is for this reason that I applied for a job at a fairly large tourist 'adventure' company (trekking, rafting, climbing, etc.) to try and get an income; an income that would hopefully support me enough to continue my work with orphans and villagers while being able to still take a hot shower and use the internet once or twice a month (and eat chocolate that doesn't taste chalky). Later, however, while hanging from a tire swing, 20 feet off the ground with my legs covered in leeches and blood, I wondered how badly I needed chocolate and hot showers.

I had a successful interview; the job was mine if I wanted it. I just had to come the next few days for orientation and training at their resort outside Kathmandu valley and help to set up an obstacle course for a leadership retreat that a lot of important Indian businessmen would be attending. After hours of lifting barrels and tying ropes we had set up a two hour course full of problem solving and physical challenges. 'We' meaning me and my new co-workers, including one gigantic British man who I can only describe as beastly. Tall, unshaven, and massive in all the ways Nepali people expect us to be: a booming voice, insensitive nature, and horrifyingly offensive sense of humor. Apart from talking directly to my breasts rather than my face, he also asked inappropriate personal questions, commented on my body, and was so disrespectful to his Nepali co-workers that even I felt ashamed. He was repulsive… and he was going to be my boss.

Clinging to ropes and swinging from trees to test the course we'd created I wondered what was more worrying; a potentially paralyzing fall from a giant tree into a mass of leeches, or someone like that telling me what to do (and having to do it).

Later I was to find out that it was a six days a week job, and during the peak of tourist season I would be required to live for up to three months at their resort. With that schedule I would never have time to spend with the kids or live in the village. Why would I work a job I hate in a third world country when I could just as easily do that at home? At least at home I could watch T.V. and eat pizza at the end of the day, and maybe save enough money from each of my paychecks to buy some cool piece of shit that I don't really need anyway… and chocolate.

I worked two more days and then decided that I had no other choice but to run screaming from their resort and find a way to make a living from my artwork; or just carry on and starve to death as defiant and honorably as possible. It is for this reason that I have just sold my first serious painting created in the village for bottom dollar to a totally sweet couple of other volunteers from Australia who helped me photograph my work and get it organized on 'flickr.com.' I have started grinding my own pigments and drawing more portraits, printing photos and buying canvas, making the time to do it all, I have committed myself once again to making truly good art and trying to live off of it. I want to say more about this, but I'll write about it soon, when I feel more like thinking and less like rambling.

A few people have been asking permission to forward my mail; please feel free to send them to whoever you like, (and suggest that they send me packages of chocolate). I appreciate any and all feedback or advice from anyone who may be interested to give it. And thanks again for reading these epic narratives and continuing to support me on this irresponsible undertaking. I miss you all (and I miss extra-large sizes… extra-large anything!)

"And I want to know; have you ever seen rain...coming down on a sunny day?"

Monsoon, misery and parasites (keep the faith!)

This is the first time I have been in Nepal for the monsoon season, and though I never expected it to be pleasant, I definitely underestimated the power of hard rain. The roads in the villages are being destroyed one by one, washed away along with the little electricity there was, which is now nonexistent, and I can't walk anywhere without ending up with leeches all over my legs. I'm sweating like hell now and constantly exhausted since the roof I sleep under is made of corrugated tin. Heavy rain on a tin roof is like machine gun fire! Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night in a sweaty haze dreaming that I've just rolled over into a trench in the battle of Gallipoli; it sounds like the end of the world! The house vibrates, springs leaks all over, and the wind rattles through the walls and windows as if the whole thing were going to fly apart at any moment. Let's just say that my energy is drained and my nerves slightly shattered after rainy nights spent in the village these days.
Unfortunately, the downpour and powerful wind of the monsoon have caused our newest construction work on the neighboring school to come to a grinding halt. Mixing cement and chopping wood isn't much fun in torrential storms, but then what is? (Certainly not sleeping in a tin roofed house.)
It has also come to my attention, after a quick visit to the clinic, that the chronic vomiting and diarrhea that I have been suffering of late is not merely another case of food poisoning but; tah dah... a parasite! Apparently it's Giardia. Looking on line at how to get rid of this un-welcomed tenant, I found tips to avoid getting a parasite pretty much contradict my entire lifestyle at the moment, but I suppose it can't be helped. I'm also ragingly menstrual at the moment. I keep hoping that something will come and save me. A volunteer carrying a western wonder-drug in her first aid kid, a clinic that is affordable yet has American doctors working there. Unfortunately, there's no fast solution galloping over the horizon. And with monsoon season being the 'off' season in Nepal, all the westerners have fled to India and Laos. With no other choice at this point but to continue to carry the banner alone or otherwise, I remain trapped in Nepal. Living and eating like the locals, still no money in my pockets or plan for the near future and the pressure and humiliation of that is reaching an intolerable level. If it weren't for the hundreds of painfully adorable children in my life, I would have given up the goat long, long ago. But, when I'm feeling sorry for myself I just spit it out on the keyboard and mail it off to you people. Then I go kick around a soccer ball while balancing five children on my head a-la Dr. Seuss, and it all seems to get pushed back down inside.
Since my illness has required me to be near a working toilet, I have been spending a lot of time drawing in my room and looking up my parasite online. Unfortunately, while looking up Giardia, I came across some information about colon cleansing that I wish I had never seen. Now that I have a parasite I want to try an all natural 'cleanse' along with the medication I was given at the clinic. After reading about colonics however, I've developed an unhealthy interest. I would not advise people to learn too much about this subject, there is no going back after you've learned how many pounds of waste build up the average person has in their lower intestine or if you've read some of those 'in depth' testimonials and seen some of those photos. *shudder*
I must say though, parasite, leeches and all other things be damned, for those brief periods where the sun finally does break free from the clouds. It's damned beautiful up in the village. The corn is growing; flowers are blooming and everything is full of life with an almost unnatural green that seems to dance when the raindrops begin to fall. Those are the times that you stop and stand in the rain and think that you might be over the hump. You've left all that craziness in Kathmandu behind you, the only madness left is the madness inside and that might be there for a long, long time no matter what you do or where you end up.
I started drawing again. Pictures of the kids, pictures of the people, pictures of the old women who, for now, still think I'm the most beautiful woman they've ever seen (which mostly translates to the only blonde woman they've ever seen in person). I'll mail some photos of the drawings when I get my camera back. It's still in the village.
I understand that these letters are a mish-mosh of things and sometimes make little to no sense. You'll just have to bear with me. When my parasite is gone and the weather improves I'm sure my mail will be much more interesting as well as uplifting.
I hope that you are all doing well and have the time to send me a little hello and tell me about the beach or the pool that you just came back from (I might be stuck in Conor's apartment for at least another week while I'm taking these pills and having frequent diarrhea, so any sort of mail would more than make my day.

Puja; once is more than enough...

How and where do I begin to tell you about puja? Puja is a Nepali ceremony; a kind of cleansing ritual that is supposed to drive out evil spirits and protect something or someone from danger. Now, this merry occasion isn't just for people; there is goat puja, river puja, and even car and bus pujas. This explains why most commercial vehicles are elaborately painted and decked out with all kinds of fantastic streamers and ridiculous tassels. The majority of them even have movie posters plastered on their roof interiors. Big eyed Nepali women and angry male heroes covered in blood and surrounded by fire when, I can guarantee, there won't be a flame in the whole film (production costs). But, as usual, I'm beginning to stray…

This week I came down with a fierce case of stomach flu, shocking since, especially in the village, there are a million different weird bacteria and evil little microorganisms that can, and do, live in the most devious places. But, this must have been an angry little creature that had penetrated my intestines because I was doubled over in pain most of the day, only getting up from bed to have ferocious diarrhea in my newly constructed 'compost toilet' (yeah, it's totally just a hole in the ground that you fill with sawdust once in a while). Anyway, puja; since I was whimpering with agony when my boyfriend's mother came to check on me, she begged him to let her perform a puja for me (as if I'd let him make decisions for me, bwa haw haw) but since I have such a good heart and an even better sense of humor I said Ok. I had no idea what I was getting myself into…

(Pause for dramatic description)

I'm in a room comprised entirely of red mud and stone. It is dark and damp with a moist and earthy smell, like moss or wet bark. The room has a low ceiling and only two pieces of furniture, one of which was a low and sturdy bed covered with a dirty blanket and one sad flap of a pillow. There's about six of them, all arranged in one way or another at the foot of the bed, all in one way or another looking creepy. There is very little light, just a few candles keeping everyone cast in shadow. I can't tell if it's hot and musty in the room or if I'm just feverish and sticky from my own sweat. I can't understand a thing that's being said but I assume that the man with the incense and the strange hat is the one in charge. They make me sit next to him on a bamboo mat. It was painful enough just getting down there and now I have to be arranged properly so that his mother can rub my belly in the right places.

Never again. That's all I'm going to say about that.

Moving on, it has been brought to my attention that my last e-mail may have caused some of you to worry and for that I apologize. I'm sure you could tell I was under duress at the time and feeling a little down. My spirits are higher these days, though my situation hasn't changed much. I am trying to renew that burning zeal I felt when I first arrived; the children need you, Jen!

I have taken a self-imposed leave of absence from the village so that I can spend more time with the children I was working with six months ago and less time schlepping through the jungle assessing damaged schools and building compost toilets.

Being back in Kathmandu, with the orphans I was originally working with, has definitely renewed my motivation and enthusiasm; but, since the paying job promised to me by this NGO has been put on hold (they didn't receive a grant that they thought was a 'sure thing') I am fast discovering that without an income there is a constant anxiety that underlies everything a person does. I am definitely not starving in a ditch anywhere (like many other unfortunate people in this country), but I am certainly gaining new wisdom that can only really be learned in a third world country.

Along with anxiety, there comes the frustrating fact that without money for arts and crafts supplies I now have to come up with ideas for art projects made entirely out of trash or things found in nature (and when you were a kid, those were never the projects that excited anybody). I have a renewed and hearty respect for those teachers I had that made the most out of their budgets. The kids are still having a blast, but I'm running out of ideas. If anyone has any suggestions for games or projects please let me know.

Covered in shit... and liking it?

I am constantly feeling like I have too many stories to tell so all of this may ramble and jump, but I'm sure you can forgive me with a minimal effort…
I've finally made a commitment to living in the village full-time and have recently discovered that I now speak more Tamang than most of my Nepali co-workers in Kathmandu. In the past, I have hit many mile stones regarding my village experience including learning almost every child's name, my first non-traumatic bowel movement after eating questionable curry and lentils for breakfast, lunch, and dinner every day, and more recently being able to drink the local water without becoming violently ill; but my proudest moment came last week when I met a boy and his father herding water buffaloes in the jungle and had an actual conversation with them. It was genuinely thrilling, though slightly disappointing as well that that kind of thing is now so exciting in my life, as opposed to a cool rock concert or bungee jumping or something more along those lines. It has also become slightly alarming how certain things don't excite me (or horrify me) as they have in the past. Rats scuttling by my bed for example or having to crap in the woods, blowing my nose in my hand, and as always, being less grossed-out by foods you couldn't have paid me to try five years ago. I'll spare you yet another ghastly tale of strange organs and questionable dairy products.

This month I proved my dogged effort to assimilate to village life once again when I spent three days putting mud and manure on the walls of one of the villager's homes. A mysterious bouquet of odors is produced when mixing cow shit with water and red mud on a hot day, an experience I'm sure you'll terribly regret missing, but we can't all be so lucky. It was actually quite fun, despite being literally covered in shit. Me and a bunch of young village women were all throwing mud around and they were singing folk songs, and I was even able to joke around with them occasionally, eventually we started hurling huge snow balls of mud at each other (the first and probably the last time that I will ever laugh if someone lobs a huge ball of shit at my face). I was feeling really accepted rather than getting looked at as if I had two heads, although when I was stomping mud in a pit we dug outside (feeling like Lucy and Ethel stomping grapes) one of the little boys passing by commented on ‘how strange it looks when there was black mud on white skin,’ it was such an appropriate metaphor for my life in the village; ah from the mouths of babes....

So, I've been working like a dog for this Non-profit organization and lately there seems to be a very frustrating pattern of their demands with no poise, and my positive results without any of their thanks, and it's beginning to really test my patience. I hate to vent, but it's just so satisfying and at this point I have surveyed 10 schools in the two districts near Gurje (the village I'm living in) some up to seven hours walking distance from the village; one way! (And I am not the most fit individual) Some of these journeys include scaling boulders on alarmingly steep hillsides! And the surveys require everything from measurements of buildings and rooms with diagrams (even the thickness of the walls!), right up to the stationary and number of female and male students in each class. Along with my one and only Nepali coworker (well, to inject yet more honesty into this missive, he's been more than a coworker since December) we have organized four women's groups in the area, met with farmers and handed out enough seeds from the INGO to revitalize their terraces, repaired the house the volunteers will stay in to the level of non-repugnant, and also prepared 72 children's profiles, hopefully for sponsorship. I'm also realizing more and more that I know a great deal more about the village and it's culture than anyone else in the organization, more than those who aren't originally from the village anyway, and none of my superiors seem to respect the work I'm doing out there (hmph!). Wah wah wah, poor me. One of my Nepali co-workers was kind enough to compliment my hard work and patience, but it made me reflect that perhaps there is a very thin line between being patient and being taken advantage of. But, I digress… their goals are still in tune with my own and their hearts are still in the right place; and I could never say enough good things about what they are trying to do and what they have accomplished so far. So, I suppose I should put up or shut up; which turns out to be an international social commentary ;)

Creation through crayola...

These days in the village I am happiest when working on art projects with the kids after school,(sometimes in class) and on weekends. The intensity with which these children respond to expressing themselves visually and creatively, even with the simplest of drawings, it never ceases to amaze me. Their reactions are so enthusiastic it makes me want to run home and draw too! Actually, I did make a drawing of one of the village girls using only crayola crayons, and I have to admit, it was quite satisfying. I felt like one of the kids humming away and scribbling with random colors.

I don’t think I can properly explain all the reasons why art is such a powerful tool. It crosses language as well as cultural barriers and it provides a way for all children to communicate without restriction. It can free a person in so many ways and take them to a different place that can be a universe away from their poverty and helplessness, like walking from a dark, narrow hallway into a field of colorful flowers; a place truly their own.

*Sigh. I had planned to write about my latest village weirdness, but now this has just turned into a random dramatic tangent. Oh well, let's just go for broke and I'll throw another one in.

I've been doing portraits of the villagers and their children, which are actually coming out quite fabulous if I do say so myself. When I can get some decent art supplies I think they might be quite fantastic. For now I've been using the kid’s supplies when their not around, and sometimes even pieces of charcoal from the fire in the tea shop. I suppose I’ve been a little lazy about trying to find real materials to work with (art school buddies, roll your eyes if you must). So, the point is, I'm going to try to sell them on line and if you have the time please look at my page on flickr: www.flickr.com/photos/artbyjen and I’d love it if you could tell your friends J and give me your feedback. They say a true artist needs no audience, but making art in a vacuum is a real b**ch!

Pause for a strange commentary of sorts...

Having tasted the poverty end of this situation, I’ve realized that I have no choice but to direct much more of my energies to the attainment of artistic fame and fortune. I suppose that most people would find living in a village full of people struggling silently but desperately to merely stay alive would be anything but inspiring. But, some of the best art is created while wallowing in a cloud of filth and despair. Poetry, music, painting, the ones that really effect us are those born of misery and anguish. People like Van Gough endured unending poverty and suffering for the majority of his adult life, and a reminder to all those who take their art for granted, Picasso was not always a millionaire and that loneliness and uncertainty are as common to artists as they are to janitors and truck drivers, or anyone else whose working time is spent isolated in a self depreciating void.

Now, I apologize if this e-mail sounds overly self-important, but as Christian Slater profoundly stated in Heathers “I’m just feeling a little superior tonight ... let’s go get a slushy.” Unfortunately a slushy is not an option in this country ( no matter how hard you may sometimes pray for one), but let’s continue the commentary in this odd vein; isn’t having tasted a slushy (or slurpee) and then having your heart sometimes ache for it, better than not having tasted the syrupy magic at all? That has the potential to be a profound metaphor...
Who is the happier person, one who has daringly braved the storm of life, tasting the slurpee, and living to their life to the fullest; or someone who has never braved the battle, the chance of failure and pain, the ‘brain freeze’ and merely existed without deliciousness?
I’ll let the reader answer that one.

PURE craft

I used to work at a "creative center" in P-hill and though it was a bit of a small time gig, my manager and co-workers were pretty awesome (Trish, you're the bomb) an there were a million ways to , well, be creative there. However, it was pricey and had I not been an employee I would have never taken the time to learn about crafts (such as picture frame decorating), and how sad it is that they get so little respect from the general public. Just because a cattle call of housewives stream into the shop to paint flower pots, and the result is immeasurably lame, doesn't mean that the act of painting a flower pot is lame as a rule. If I learned anything at that place it's that all materials have merit, whether it's a one hundred dollar tube of oil paint, or yarn from your granny's attic. Take ceramic fruit bowls for example; who would have thought they could be high art (and it is high art, if I do say so myself)...

conceptual nonappearance... ke garne?

I suppose that I should have explained from the beginning that all of these little writings took place months and months ago and thanks to my pathetic organizational skills I have only just now begun to post them, and on top of that they will be interrupted by posts about my 'feelings' at this moment as well. Eventually it will all even out an become cohesive, perhaps I'll re-arrange.
I will find my voice, if you will. For now, I'm trying to get back into another mode of self expression; my art. That was always plan A, but I've been having trouble trying to create decent art abroad, partly due to laziness (a shameful confession for me to make!) and partly due to the fact that I make a big mess when I paint and when I live in a space that is temporary, or not wholly mine, I feel guilty about my mess. What can you do? Here's a few examples of the results of my unsatisfying recent toil...
If you want to see some more stuff, please go to www.flickr.com/photos/artbyjen or, www.jenfuller.net My innards are screaming for artistic feedback, please let me know what you think: the good, the bad, and especially the ugly; a lot of time the ugly and brutal end up helping you the most.

Dashain...

Ah, Dashain; the biggest Nepali celebration of the year (this year being 2063 on the Nepali calendar). I’ve been told that this festival is primarily for Durga, who “killed many monsters,” and in veneration it is customary to sacrifice a goat, which we all did at two of the orphanages, and with enthusiasm that rivaled anything I’ve seen on Christmas morning at home. The last Dashain I spent in Nepal I was spared the main event, but this year I was fortunate enough to be involved in the entire process, from selecting, purchasing, and transporting the goat home (which required yet another ride on the luggage rack of a bus, complete with tree branches and power lines swatting at our faces), and I even helped with the marinade. The excitement leading up to the deed was very infectious, and despite the horror of it all in very little time I was completely sucked into the thrill and glee of the whole experience.
Dashain to Nepal is what Christmas is for America, it’s the longest holiday break with about two weeks off of school for the kids, everyone goes home to their families, shopping is a pain in the ass, and on the main day everybody has a party and eats too much together. Sure there’s no up close and personal animal slaughter on Christmas, but there is still a lot of meat consumed at the end of the day.
I supposed what baffled me the most (besides seeing a large animal having its head chopped off) was how ecstatic the kids were even though they had a full day and a half to get attached to the animal. They were feeding it and petting it, and then when its life was finally cut short in such a brutal way, they cheered like they were watching their baseball team win some sort of bloody championship or something. There was no sadness or pity whatsoever for the goat. In both instances young boys living at the orphanages were the ones who served as executioners, and they were so proud and excited to be the ones selected. The chosen assassin at our orphanage, Suman, is only 16. All the western rights of passage at that age; driver’s license, prom, seem completely feeble compared to the slaying of an animal that might very well out-weigh you.

I was prepared for all kinds of thrashing and spurting, but it was really quite fast and simple. I suppose if a beheading can be described as simple, anyway. So when the head actually cam off, in one clean swing I wasn’t quite as horrified as I thought I would be. But when there are 20 overjoyed small children surrounding you it’s easy to forget your hypocritical western morality (I’m referring to the fact that I can savor a hamburger with no remorse and yet can’t even kill an insect without a pang of guilt) and you begin to enjoy the moment and live it in the way that everyone else is. Not only did I watch the killing and skinning, I watched them gut the poor beast with such a savage and impressive speed that I couldn’t help but be in awe of the whole scene. And all of this was being performed by children ranging from 12 to 17 so it had a very surreal ‘lord of the flies’ feeling to it.

In the end, the trauma was quite brief compared to the awesome festivities that followed. There was so much food and dancing and sheer happiness that I couldn’t help but throw myself into it. I even ate fried blood (sorry, vegie. buddies) and though the taste was certainly lacking, it was quite worth the props I got for trying it; and I didn’t even get sick! Although, I did experience some of Kazumasa’s chronic fiery diarrhea, but that’s usually just due to the spices and chilies.

On with the show…
‘Clowns without borders’ came to perform this weekend and all the orphanages in the foundation planned a show to accompany them. It ended up, I felt, being better than the clown’s performance. But perhaps I feel that way simply because I was designated the ‘entertainment organizer’ and had to plan way more than I ever would have knowingly agreed to. And on top of it all, much to my dismay, I had to (big surprise) MC the whole show, a task which I completed with utter charm and ease, if I do say so myself, most likely due to my hellish ‘trial by fire’ training in Japan. There were three traditional dances, singing, break dancing, and a fashion show. And I’m not ashamed to take full credit for the fabulous singing and ‘hip hop’ dancing, as well as the artwork and music since it was all organized and choreographed solely by me. (Picture me looking smug and desperate for praise at the same time.)

I will admit that the clown’s act was pretty impressive considering that they had hardly any props. One of them walked over me while juggling knives and that was pretty cool.

Our orphanage did the best dance, a traditional ‘Tamang Selo’ performed by 8 of our older boys and they nailed it. It was really complicated but nobody made any mistakes. I’m especially impressed since I practiced it with them so many times that I learned to do the dance myself, badly. I think that was one of the reasons I became so close to them so quickly, I suppose that sweating and falling all over the place, and generally making asses of yourselves together breeds a certain kind of trust and camaraderie (even though I might have been the only ass). They kept asking me to perform it with them in the show, and when you see the video you’ll know why I firmly refused. But, it was adorable when they performed it in their traditional Nepali outfits and even wore eyeliner!
The clowns ended up being quite risqué, hitting on me with a voracity that I had yet to experience up to that point. Offering to rub sunscreen on me and inviting me to come to their hotel. One of them was kind of cute, but I don’t date clowns (not professional ones anyway).
Mostly, I’m really glad that the show is over. It made me tense to have to organize so much and there was a lot of pressure because there were some non-profit big wigs and Nepali diplomats that attended (with armed guards and everything! We had to ask them to keep their rifles out of sight for the sake of all the kids there). It was an incredibly stressful experience, but in the end it was an over-all smashing success; ta-dah!

testicles and fear...

Ah yes, rooster testicles, my latest culinary experience in the village. I know you probably won't be finding the item on a menu any time soon, but let me just advise you to steer clear of that dish in general anyway because it was the texture that was more than extremely lacking, and therefore no matter which method you may find it prepared with, it will still retain a kind of "yes, those are testicles" feeling against your teeth, and therefore I could never endorse the dish in any way and in fact, suggest it should be avoided at all costs.
(Before I forget, I also want to write a big fat thank you to those who recently donated, I am proud to say that the children in the village are no longer without soccer balls and badminten birdies. We are also still raising money to fix the school in the neighboring village, which should begin sometime before the end of this month depending on funds, so much of the recent money has gone into the pot for that future project as well.)

That said, let me move on to write about my feelings, since after a long while I am finally in Kathmandu long enough to truly reflect on these past few months. This is a seriously needed relief since I could feel my mind starting to curdle like old milk without the stimulation of another cynical westerner who, if not my equal intellectually, at least sarcastically, would have kept me much more lucid than I have been in these past few weeks being surrounded by people who after all this time still giggle at me when I walk past them. I suppose I am also a little desperate to talk about how far away I feel these days, even for me, someone who is used to being far away. At least I thought that I was used to it. I suppose as long as I am an incredible distance from everything and everyone dear to me, I'll never completely get used to it. Perhaps, I'm also feeling uncertain lately due to some poignant e-mails I just received that have coolly pointed out that this is the most outlandish/ irresponsible thing I've ever done. I suppose the full realization that I'm practically committing to life as a hobo, living in a wild and beautiful, poverty stricken hell hole full of madness and depravity, is beginning to culminate into a steadily growing snow ball of doubts. I mean, for christ's sake, I'm trying to learn a language that only 4% of the population of a third world country can understand; no wonder I'm insecure about my life.
Perhaps the weirdness of it all has just magnified because I am beginning to actually live inside the poverty of this situation rather than merely trying to understand and assess it. At times I can go on these emotional benders; sudden explosions of panic triggered by a mountain of dread. I have slowly begun to realize that TRUE village life, in all its filth and toil, it's real and inescapable desperation; though interesting when temporary, is terrifying if permanent. Then again, I suppose the prospect of destitution is always terrifying, especially to those whose door it's beating down.
I have slowly become more than just comfortable and emotionally connected to the people of Gurje. I have now become physically closer to them since I have taken up permanent residence in the village. These people, who are struggling silently and desperately just to stay alive, have become my neighbors, their children my students and now I am becoming more and more responsible for trying to aid their community through works considerably outside the child-education sector. Women's literacy, agriculture, infrastructure projects, my Nepali partner and I are accumulating more and more responsibilities by the day and I have been simultaneously running out of my own personal savings and slowly sinking into the mire of shit and misery that plagues my recent neighbors.
On the plus side, some of the best art is created while wallowing in a thick cloud of poverty and despair. And having more than just tasted the poverty end of this situation, I've finally realized that I have no choice but to direct much more of my energies to the attainment of fame and fortune through my talents as an artist. I mean, most meaningful art; poetry, music, painting, the ones that really affect us are all born of some anguish or another. Why not the pressure of rehabilitating a village while living exposed to the elements and without funds?
Though I am constantly plagued by uncertainty, I do gain a lot of satisfaction out of the things I have accomplished and god knows I've had some staggeringly bizarre experiences. With all of the work I've done to help orphaned and destitute children in these exceedingly weird conditions, at least I will have plenty of outlandish, self-righteous stories to drape over the stinking carcass that was my future career, (whatever that would have been…)
In the meantime however, if you know anyone, who for any reason wants to employ an arty village hermit from half way across the world, please let me know.

The dirt road less traveled...

It wasn’t until I wrote Opa an e-mail today that I realized how confused I am about my life. I know that I am floating, in limbo about my future, but there’s a lot more to it than that. Perhaps I am beginning to truly discover myself now that I am completely independent. I can’t say for sure why these thoughts never surfaced so clearly while I was living in Tokyo. Perhaps I was too busy with work or simply preoccupied with hating that godforsaken city to think about myself and where I want to be in my soul.

That may sound strange or just hippy-ish, but I’m honestly thinking about things on those terms lately. What does one need to really feel whole, or maybe just good about life and the future in general. I hate the idea of the unknown, and yet I am drawn to it so intensely that I end up half way across the world discovering who I am rather than staying home and wondering what I will be.

Can’t I just live in this moment, in this place at this time with these people? I want to live here; I want to be a part of this family. I want these kids to be my kids, always. I don’t want them to grow up and I don’t want to grow up either. How does one come to grips with the fact that this is something so good, maybe even the best, but that it can’t last and it won’t last, and in fact it will probably be fleeting enough to leave you desperate to find it again somewhere else.

This past week may have been the best of my life. Truly, I can’t think of a time where there has been such an intense cycle of emotions so varied and so pure. The excitement and horror of the goat sacrifice, the anticipation and curiosity, and the feelings of family and tradition that came with the feast that followed. Later, feelings of pity and sadness, the questions of humanity that came with the arrival of the two starved and ill children, and ultimately the fulfillment that came with caring for them and finally, seeing the smiles on their faces.

The satisfaction of the show after the extreme tension and scrambling around. The hard work that paid off, the pride in the kids as well as myself.

Sitting here, smoking for christ’s sake, don’t ask me why, looking at Swoyambunath glowing like a beacon on top of the hill, it’s flags flapping gently in the cool night air. Why would I want to leave this? Where am I going to find this kind of feeling again? How can I leave this without a deep sense of loss and sadness? Like I’m passing something up, letting something slip through my fingers never to return. Like this week, this week will never happen again. Of course there will be other weeks other times in my life that will be inspiring or amazing, but I want this, I want this time, these experiences. I don’t want to even think of what might come next. I want this.

"Buy the ticket, take the ride..."

There are times in life when the walls start to close in and you start watching too much mind numbing T.V., and then before you know it you’ve become totally bored with your existence and need to make a change. The only option then is to load up on as much self confidence as possible and do something outrageous as an affirmation of independence; some sort of physical salute to self discovery and possibility; perhaps even to idiocy, whichever is the most satisfying. Play any kind of over-the-top, pump you up, classic rock song… and just get up and go, baby.

This whole thing may end up being little more than a weird and awkward epic, droning on and painful to read, but we’ll see; you never know till you try right? And I have a ton of this kind of stuff sitting on my desktop; I wanna put that work out into the ether and see what inspiration I can get in exchange…

August 2006

“After a few hours of sleep I was on the road home with a mission: To cram as many clothes as I could into two medium sized suitcases. In so many places I’ve been scoffed at for having too much crap with me, and determined to prove myself low maintenance regardless of my lack of organization, I ended up forgetting almost all of my socks and pantyhose (that’s right, pantyhose) as well as other key items and as a result must be extremely creative with my minimal wardrobe not to look like I’m wearing the same thing every day; which I am, and that’s the most offensive sin possible in a fashion obsessed city like Tokyo.

I arrived in Japan sweaty and numb. The bus terminal at the airport was just a huge mass of confusion, but I felt confident that some way or another I would be able to make it home rather easily. But, somehow everything went incredibly wrong and I just ended up stumbling around drunk on the humidity, awkwardly dragging my bags behind me. After about a half hour of aimless wandering I finally found it. I was forty-five minutes early and withered like a prune. I used my first 10,000 yen to purchase huge beverages and mysterious Japanese snacks.

When I arrived at the apartment in the later afternoon I was exhausted and simply passed out on my tiny futon with the plastic still on, only to wake up an hour later and peel my face off of it again. After the sun set and everything started to sink in, I fell into a kind of instant, self-piteous despair; an emotional agony, if you will. I broke down. Sobbing, quivering uncontrollably, I thought about my family, my friends, my dogs. I looked at all of the cards and notes they had written me and felt like somewhat of a phony. I was supposed to be strong and independent; adventurous! I would adjust to Japan instantly after my other harrowing experiences in Asia and Europe, a piece of cake! I was supposed to be confident and laid back, and look at me! It was that barren room, that oppressive heat, the utter separation. It was just me; all alone.

I quietly recovered from my little trauma and looked at all my little cards again. I made that little determined face that I make, and began arranging my things in my new little hot-box of a room. I thought about being completely lost and sick on other trips I had experienced and remembered how much I ended up enjoying it all at the end wanting it to never stop. Would Japan be any different? I’d have to ride the roller coaster out to the end to find out. There’s no going back now, no time to rest; but I tried to sleep anyway, only to end up lying in my own sweat and imagining my first day.”

Travel is always a risk, always a trial. Exhausting, frustrating, oppressive, maddening, but it's never boring; almost never :)

as close to the bones as I could get

I hope that this writing reflects all the divergent attitudes that I felt about these foreign places and all my experiences in them. Though I may be a cranky bastard most of the time, and may write like one too, I don’t get pissed off or regretful about my time spent abroad; any of it. I only have an eager hope that in the future I will be able to take yet another insane journey without loosing all my money and the majority of my sanity in the process. But, then again, it seems that going broke and going mad are what creates the proper state of mind to make you try anything pushed in front of you while traveling, whether it be food, work, a ride, or something more dangerous. This is my account of all the sites and smells and ideas that intrigued, captured, or just plain disgusted me; as honest and direct of a record I can give while curbing my obscenities. I just hope that someone, somewhere, finds the whole thing amusing enough to inspire them to travel somewhere far away and do something completely foolish.