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?