Festive Occasions

In Australia, the average worker gets four weeks of paid holidays a year as well as a handful of about half a dozen public holidays for community- or sometimes nation-wide celebrations like Christmas and Easter. Compared to many other countries, it’s quite a generous allowance. But in Nepal, festivals are more a weekly event than a special occasion and working life is interspersed with a veritable bounty of public holidays. In the last two months alone, we’ve enjoyed no less than five festival days.

There’s no mistaking when there’s a festival in Nepal either. No matter which caste or ethnic group is celebrating the holiday, it’s inevitably marked with colourful and noisy public gatherings in squares and streets. Our first experience of Nepali festivals was Gai Jatra, a Newari celebration to remember and pray for friends and relatives who have died over the past year. It sounds like quite a sombre occasion, but actually there’s quite a party atmosphere. People parade through the streets with tall, woven bamboo monuments to the dead, drinking homemade liquor and carrying out complicated dance that involves banging wooden sticks with a partner.

The next major event (though there were some lesser festivals – holidays – in between) was Teej, which is exclusively for women. The concept of having a women’s only public holiday is also unheard of in Australia, but actually, it’s not a bad deal for men – the purpose of Teej is for women to fast and pray for the long lives of their husbands, or their future husband if they’re not yet married. It’s a colourful day with a special sense of camaraderie among the women, who dress up in red and spend hours queuing together to receive a blessing from Hindu priests, then spend the afternoon dancing to loud folk music with no shortage of enthusiasm despite their empty stomachs. The red ocean of thousands of women bouncing and waving to the music is an impressive sight to see.

This week is Indra Jatra when the Kumari, a prepubescent girl who Hindus believe is a living goddess, comes out to see the people and give a blessing to the king. This year happens to be the 250th anniversary of the festival and we gathered with thousands of others, waiting for four hours in the rain, before the Kumari was carried out to see us. Dressed in a suitable impressive gold and red outfit, she was seated in one of three huge, garlanded chariots, which were then dragged by mobs of cheering people in a circuit around the temple square. Even this festival bore the marks of the political turmoil though – as well as being a notable anniversary, it was also the first time in history that the king didn’t attend, allegedly because the largely pro-republican interim government refused to provide him with extra security. He was represented by the Prime Minister instead.

But the festivals aren’t over yet. In October, there’s the 10 days of Dashain, the Hindu equivalent of the 12 days of Christmas and the biggest – and longest – festival of the year, during the length of which offices across the country shut down. It’s followed closely by Tihar, just three weeks later in November. Tihar, the festival of lights, gets a pretty big wrap in travel guidebooks as one of the prettiest festivals in Nepal’s calendar. People celebrate it by stringing fairy lights around their houses and across the streets, and burning the butter candles that you can already see elderly people sitting in doorways painstakingly making. The best is yet to come!

In or Out

Yesterday, the Maoists resigned from the interim government here in Nepal in a move being called the biggest set back for the peace process since they declared an end to 10 years of fighting last year. It’s now just two months before the Constituent Assembly elections are due to be held and this throws serious doubts over the already shadowy hopes that they’ll go ahead as scheduled.

The Maoists’ pull out hasn’t come as much of a surprise to the people of Nepal. They have just made good on a threat issued a month ago along with a 22 point list of demands to be agreed by September 18. The other government factions agreed to all of the demands but two – they refused to replace Nepal’s monarchy with a republic before elections are held and they rejected using a proportionate voting system in the elections. This response was also expected, and accordingly the Maoist rhetoric had escalated over the last week with heated comments to the papers and a fresh outbreak of slogan graffiti, which is now painted across almost every spare wall in Kathmandu and even on the roads at intersections.

The Maoist leadership says their protest campaign will be peaceful. But it seems the general populous, who all lost family and friends and finances during the civil war and don’t have a great deal of faith in the speech-makers – a factor with obvious implications for the Maoists’ election campaign and which no doubt influenced the recent decision making - aren’t quite sure whether to buy that. When we got home last night, our landlord was at a neighbourhood meeting to discuss an alert system in case there’s trouble. A friend cancelled our dinner plans because of the possibility of a general strike. Contacts in the UN told of late night emergency meetings. Perhaps the protest action will be peaceful, but Nepal is waiting to see.

The Hunt for the Italian Baker

It began with a tip off from a woman with dark, fiery eyes.

Actually, to be more precise, it began with me complaining about how terrible the bread is in Nepal. I’m not usually all that much of a bread connoisseur at home, but I enjoy some good, savoury, soft-on-the-inside, crusty-on-the-outside, standard bakery bread to spread my vegemite on as much as the next Australian. Ergo, the Nepali version of bread, which is full of sugar and has the consistency of an Egyptian mummy – hard and leathery, but crumbles at a touch – has been an unexpectedly distressing element of life in Kathmandu. When we first arrived, I laughed as a fellow expat explaining the joys of the small things here told me how she and her once sister celebrated well into the night after finding a decent loaf of bread. Ha ha, I thought, I’ve seen bread everywhere. She must be really precious about her bakeries. That was before I found myself taking the three pieces of my toast that suffered continental drift in the bottom of the pan (as opposed to a toaster) and dipping them into the jam jar.

So when an Italian woman who works for the UN here asked me what I missed most from home over lunch one day, I immediately launched into a lengthy discourse on the shortcomings of Nepali style bread. Being European (where unlike the Mt Coolum bakery, they really pride themselves on staples like bread), she understood completely, and making a sympathetic face, said, “You have to understand that all bread here is just an imitation. But you really should try the baker up near the British School. He was trained by an Italian and it’s the closest thing to bread from home in Nepal.”

Having had my heart broken several times by now after following various recommendations only to find them all exactly the same – awful – I was sceptical. But we got the directions and set off that afternoon to try the Italian trained baker out.

Our first mission was to find the British School. We found the turn off (“down past the Banana Cat Café and right at the round about near the shop with the good looking tomatoes” and walked for what seemed like miles against the stream of motorbikes, carpet sellers, housewives, fruit vendors, small children and the occasional expat on a bike wearing a helmet. Eventually we found the school, where it was expected to be. Hooray, we thought, not so difficult afterall. Warm bread in two minutes. Alas, the next turn off (“a little lane with three houses, just on the left”) proved more elusive. We wandered along the length of the British School for half an hour, peering hopefully down the dozens of lanes packed with houses, looking fruitlessly for something indicating the presence of the best bakery in Nepal. Eventually, stomachs growling and feet aching, we struck up a one sided, English and hand language conversation with the Nepali speaking British School guard. While he had no idea why the badeshis were treating him to a display of rubbing their stomachs and eating their fingers, a passing British man took pity on us, asked if we were looking for the Italian baker, and led us to the right street, which oddly enough, really did only have three houses.

Great, we thought, almost home. All we had to do now was go to the middle house, shower them with praise for their very clever bakery disguise, buy our loaf and go. But the middle house was shuttered away behind some formidable looking steel gates and the porch of the house behind was littered with school bags and washing and ladies shoes. The much anticipated bakery sign was still noticeably absent. So we stood out the front for a while, kicking the stones and hoping some one would come out and ask us if we would like some of the best bread in Nepal. No dice. Eventually we plucked up the courage to walk in to what was obviously someone’s private home and knocked on the door, thinking perhaps they could at least give us some more directions. But a woman wearing a flour dusted apron answered the door and without even asking us what we were there for, ushered us past a lounge room with children watching TV and into a back room which looked like a old bakery straight out of provincial Italy. Big stone oven, solid looking wooden tables and piles of bread and pastries. Not just any bread – ciabata, focaccia, brioche, quiche, cakes, all manner of continental delicacies. Slightly over wrought from our ordeal thus far, we held back tears, picked out a loaf, handed over the very reasonable sum of 45 rupees and wended our way home.

And now we know where to buy bread in Nepal. It’s not the same as home – it’s a little more exotic than I’d like for my daily breakfast – but it’s certainly a reasonable substitute and well worth the adventure.

Violent Negotiations

Last week, five bombs were detonated in three Kathmandu locations, killing two people and injuring more than a dozen others. These injuries were not cuts and bruises, but loss of legs and other permanent disablement – a common outcome of violence like this that’s usually glossed over in the news reports’ reels of statistics. The bombs hit a mini bus full of commuters, a group of school children waiting at a bus stop, and a crowd at one of the city’s busiest shopping and transport hubs.

A couple of little known militant groups from the southern Terai region claimed responsibility for the attacks – apparently with little concern for the legal ramifications and apparently with good reason, because there’s been little in the way of a response at any level. And that’s been the most astonishing aspect of the whole dreadful thing for me. When we decide to come to Nepal in the lead up to November’s elections, during one of the most tumultuous periods of the country’s modern political history, we were prepared for civil unrest – strikes, riots, even bombs. And there have been plenty of strikes. Rubbish piled up on the street for weeks as garbage collectors went on strike to demand permanent working agreements. Tyres were burned in the street and all vehicles were forced off the road to protest the death of a young woman in a traffic accident and demand compensation for her family. But there has been no public action in response to the most significant attack on the capital’s security since the end of the 10 year Maoist insurgency. It seems people have been shocked, and looking to the months ahead, scared into silence.

A friend of mine is working with an NGO here in Kathmandu to promote good governance and inclusion as the new political system is developed. He was telling me of a new program they’re launching to train and encourage various political and interest groups to express their concerns and opinions in appropriate, effective and non violent ways. In a social climate where marginalised groups are targeting civilians with bombings designed only to maximise the loss of life and rubbish gets more attention than people, clearly, it’s vitally necessary.

It's an Aussie Thing

It’s funny how being thousands of miles away makes what it is to be Australian much more obvious, and so much more pertinent to talk about with other away-from-home Australians. Firstly, there’re all the characteristics that we already know about and are part of our articulated Waltzing Matilda national identity, the things we wear like a badge of Aussie pride on our travelling backpacks. For instance:

Being larrikins. It wraps up all those expectations of being the first of an international group to do the bungy jump and the last to stop drinking the night before, all while cracking jokes and refusing to take anything seriously. And we love this about ourselves – one of the greatest compliments for a travelling Australian is being called a larrikin. Inherent in the larrikin concept is also…

Limited respect for authority. It’s part of the tall poppy syndrome I guess, but there is no kowtowing among Australians. This is evidenced by the fact that each time we meet the Australian Ambassador our group of volunteers has to keep reminding each other to call him “Your Excellency”. This is not because he’s not worthy of the title, but just because it seems so foreign to be so formal with anyone. There’s also a distinct absence of unquestioning faith in the leadership in Australian culture. While trekking through the remote hills along the Tibetan border, where none of us had ever been before, we Australians thought it perfectly reasonable to question the guide on his choice of direction at a crossroads.

Independent. Closely related to the limited respect for authority notion, we like to decide ourselves how things will be done. We want to have access to all available information on anything vaguely related to ourselves and we will purposefully argue in favour of the opposing view, just so that side of the picture comes out. This is not to say that Australians aren’t team players – just that they want to lead it, or at least reserve the right to ignore it.

Belief in the Fair Go. Another concept we’re proud to tout. An incident in which a high caste man walked onto our bus and looked at a lower caste man sitting in the back row until he got up and gave him the seat left us seething with righteous indignation.

And then there are the characteristics that generally, we’re not so aware of at home:

Sarcasm. A sense of humour is integral to our much loved larrikin, but often the rest of the world doesn’t get our jokes. Americans in particular often think we’re just mean to each other.

Preoccupation with time. Somewhat in contrast to our reputation for being laidback, part of the love of independence is a need to know how long something will take, the estimated time of arrival, how long someone has been doing something for. This is particularly obvious in Nepal, where time is fairly low on the priority list and even among the best English speakers, questions about timeframes are rarely understood or clearly answered.

Low tolerance of falsehood. Australians have a gift for identifying a liar or a kissass from seven leagues off. Tall stories might be tolerated in a fishing legend, but insincerity or dishonesty is met with disgust. No ego stroking please, we’re Australians!

Justice for Some

Today I saw an emaciated man lying naked on the footpath, writhing around in the dirt.

What does it mean to all the people that stepped around him, getting on with their business? What does it mean to a country at war for 10 years to fight for social justice? What does it mean to me, the Badeshi, driving along in all my white glory, seeing it and sighing at it but not letting it interfere with my lunch plans.

Should I have stopped the car? Found some money or food or hope to throw at him? It would have appeased my conscience, which has been piercing me ever since. And maybe it would have meant something to him too: not just the response to the physical need, which must have been extreme, but the difference between the whole world ignoring the agonizing reality that must have triggered that reaction and a member of humanity reaching across an ocean wide divide and connecting with another.

But it’s hard. Nepal has no government funded health and welfare hotline that I’m aware of, few charities with time to spare for one hopeless case. There are so many other very valid causes jostling for attention.

So that leaves it to me – or one of the hundreds of other people who saw that man today. But a real live person, not a department or phone voice, to get dirty and be made afraid and step into that messed up life and do something. Honestly, I don’t know if I have it in me. But I hope one of us does.

Scarily Enough

Scarily enough, I think I’m starting to get it. Reasoning that completely escaped me just four short weeks ago has become seamlessly woven into my consciousness.

I understand that it can take six hours to pack a bag, be picked up from a hotel, and be transported to another location just 15 minutes away.

I’ve caught myself surveying peaks at least 3,000 metres above sea level and categorising them as hills.

I embrace the fact that a chocolate bar costs the same as a curry, naan bread and a drink or the tailoring of both a shirt and pants or a 20 minute taxi ride or a handwoven bamboo floor mat.

I recognise that there are approximately a gazillion meanings of the word “hajur” and it’s unlikely I will ever fully understand them.

I have come to terms with shopkeepers who try to extort huge amounts of money from “the badeshi” and then burst out laughing when they are caught.

I know the true meaning of feeling outrageously happy on a sweltering, sunny day, because despite the flies and sweat, it means a hot shower.

And most tellingly of all, I accept that there really is no plug in the entirety of Nepal that will fit my kitchen sink.

I’m not sure what this will mean for my eventual assimilation back into life in Australia, but it definitely makes life in Nepal more relaxing!