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.