Bhujing Olympics

It is 5:00pm on a Saturday, and I am crushed between an elderly Robari woman wearing a traditional ludi (black veil) and a young woman with a ponytail, t-shirt and jeans. We are some of the thirteen people crammed into a Chokdra (shared rickshaw) riding from Kukma village (the closest village to KHAMIR, where I work) to Bhuj. I am supposed to be meeting Matt, Vrunda, and Binuta NOW.
“What country?” The young woman turns and asks me.
“U.S.”
“New York or California?”
“Minnesota. It is between Chicago and Canada, up in the North of the US,” I explain, and immediately realize she has no idea what I just said.
I desperately wish, for the nth time today, that I spoke Gujarati. As it is, I have the “what country?” conversation pretty often: with people passing by on motorcycles, vendors at the market, kids skipping next to me as I walk to catch my morning chokdra. It usually ends after “U.S.”, so when someone exhibits further interest I get excited.

The young woman smiles uncomfortably and starts speaking to me in Gujarati. I nod and smile to hide the slight disappointment I feel at my own linguistic inadequacy. At the same time, I am relieved at the distraction. When we finally arrive at Jubilee circle, I leap out.

From down the street I can already see the target group thanks to Matt’s head floating above the crowd. I dash towards them and by 5:10 we are in a private rickshaw winding our way up the mountain outside Bhuj. When we get out at the Bhujia fort (after which Bhuj is named), we wander along the dirt path towards the stone wall, precariously climbing the stairs paralleling the fort walls.

And just as the sky turns red, we arrive.

It is a delicate moment: the sun burns scarlet, shooting rays of light across the sky, just starting to slip behind the horizon. The fort itself looks black against the explosive canvas of red, and we sit with our legs dangling over the side of the three hundred year old wall watching as the light fades over our new home.

I am pretty relieved that we made it in time to see the sunset, but the show isn't over yet.

We pull out our picnic dinner of peanut butter, bread, fruit, and snacks and eat as we watch the moon rise. Slowly, a shadow starts to pass over it, a nearly imperceptible arc that I would assume were clouds if I didn't know any better.

According to Matt, this is the last full lunar eclipse for the next seven years. This is a pretty stellar place to watch it.

I am surprised at how big Bhuj is, now that I can see it from above. While I wander the streets of the old city, I feel like I am in a big village. From up here, it looks like a real city. As the street lamps alight, dotting the dark landscape, it seems the stars are extending downwards.

The moon is dark, and we decide it is time to make our own descent. We climb down the narrow stone steps to meet our waiting rickshaw below.

As with any race, we end with a victory meal. At Uncle Sam's Pizza, of course.

This travelers prayer given to me by AJWS is about as religious as I get:

Let us remember that we travel not for the sake of travel alone, but to have our perspectives on the world transformed. Let us take responsibility for our own actions and words as we study and work, listen and learn, struggle and grow. Let us arrive safely at our destination and leave secure in the knowledge that we have helped to create change: change that is meaningful, lasting, and real.

~AJWS interpretation of the Tefilat Haderech, or Traveler’s Prayer.

Orienting in Ahmedabad

I am sitting under a tree, watching a monkey jump from the top of my sleeping quarters onto a fence -- guess I won’t be getting anything out of my room for awhile. It is a strange juxtaposition – the monkey swings on the laundry line (there goes my shirt) and into a tree, while in the background a tall modern looking apartment building rises into the sky as the sound of lyrical bus horns and honking cars fill my ears.

I am in Ahmedabad, India, in the state of Gujarat, at Kochrab Ashram where the AJWS Fellowship Orientation has begun.

I have to admit I am relieved to be here. I very much enjoyed Nepal, but I felt the whole time that I was pending, in a liminal space between America and India. Now I am here, and finally feeling present.

We were welcomed at the airport by our fabulous AJWS staff -- Lily, Sunita, Will and Aaron – and taken on a typically wild ride through the streets of the city to our Ashram. On the way, I did a double take – was that a camel pulling a cart? There it was in the middle of traffic, walking jauntily beside a bus. (Note: I have since seen a plethora of animals asserting their right to the road: elephants, camels, dogs, goats, cows. Crossing the street behind one is a good way to avoid being run over.)

As our first day passed, the rest of the fellows began to arrive, culminating in a lovely dinner and welcome ceremony facilitated by our country representative, Sunita. First I was asked to light an oil lamp, which Sunita circled in front of each of us in turn. Then she placed a dot of red pigment between our eyebrows and a flower garland around our necks, handing us bangles, sweets, nuts, and dried fruits as gifts. I felt instantly at home.

It has been three weeks since we arrived and we have covered everything from the caste system to the LGBTI community to Hindu rituals to being Jewish in India. We have visited a 600 year old stepwell where the community once drew water, purchased salwar kameez and dupatas to wear, seen wild asses at an animal sanctuary, visited a women's court, and gone to a (terrible) Bollywood film called Ra-One. I even got to visit Bhuj briefly in order to attain my documentation.

This evening our NGO partners arrive and everything changes.

By Friday we will disperse around the country: to Mumbai, Patna, Lucknow, Ahmedabad, Bhuj, and in the case of one Fellow, a campus in the middle of the desert where Dalits (untouchables) can study. I will leave with my counterpart from Khamir for Bhuj and begin the process of transitioning into a new home, town, and work space. My apprehension is overwhelmed by excitement. But I have grown to love Ahmedabad, the Ghandi Kochrob Ashram, and the AJWS group, and am a bit sad to be leaving the comfort of this community.

Remember that time we saw the chicken being beheaded?

Ghorka was a sigh of relief after even the few days we spent in Kathmandu. A small town where we were the only white visitors, we walked the streets followed by a small gaggle of children. They would touch their hands together and say “Namaste”, wait for our pathetic and hilarious return of the same, then giggle together and follow us further to try the game again.

In Ghorka I also saw my first beheading -- of a chicken, that is.

We had decided to climb the mountain to Durbar Square (there is one in every town, “Durbar” literally means “square” so the title is redundant). The arduous climb involved hundreds of stairs passing rice patties, houses, and women sitting on the sides of the path selling coconuts, flower garlands, and other devotional objects we might use when we reached the temple. At one point we found a beautiful hand painted map sketching out our options: there was the “short way” and the “long way”. We went up the short and came down the long, though in practice they were rather similar.

About three quarters of the way up, we started to see dots of red on the ground. As we followed the string of crimson, we suddenly came upon two men carrying a plastic bag dripping blood. The furry shape pressing against the plastic from within was clearly a goat. We offered our “Namaste” and continued onward.

As we entered the palace, we were welcomed by a man playing a beautiful instrument and singing. We passed through an archway, and found a block of wood with feathers around it.

“I predict this is a place where chickens die.” I said, and was immediately proven correct. A man with a squawking chicken in one hand and a machete in the other approached the block. I turned away but heard the cries of the chicken and saw the body writhing even after the head was gathering a pool of blood on the ground. After the chicken was killed, it was taken inside the temple to be prepared as an offering with flowers and incense. Several other chickens met this fate while we were watched.

The grotesque is simultaneously disturbing and intriguing, and I felt in that moment that I could understand the seeming oxymoron of the word. Despite the blood, I found the chicken’s death quite beautiful. In the West we often take certain deaths for granted: animals are raised to die, plants are grown to be consumed. Yet here was a man ceremoniously recognizing the power dynamic involved in killing, dually using the chicken’s death as a religious action and a source of food.

Maybe if more Americans had this relationship with their food we would be a healthier place.

Trekking the Annapurnas

Last Sunday night I returned from a five day trek in the Annapurna Himalayas (a word which, by the way, means "mountains" in Nepali). The trip was exhausting, beautiful, and surprising.

We spent the first day steadily walking along the river, passing rice patties and small villages as we began our ascent. We stayed in a tiny village called Hille, which essentially consists of a couple houses and a lot of land.

We continued on to Ghorepani, where we woke up at 4:30am in order to see the sun rise over Poon Hill. We joined the pilgrimage in the dark, following a trail of lights like fireflies weaving up into the sky. Arriving at the summit was like entering a freezer with the vents on -- wind pounded at my cheeks and I added every layer in my backpack. As the sky began to lighten, it became clear that we were not going to see the mountains as a whole. Clouds covered the horizon line, yet pockets of snow covered jagged rocks poked through. I was floored by the majesty, even though I couldn't see it all at once. We stayed until the day had decidedly begun, watching strokes of blue appear behind one another like Chinese silk paintings as the sun rose over the Annapurnas.

During the day we stopped at a rest stop, where I got to hold an adorable three month old baby named Elena while her sister Reyna swung in a whicker cradle attached to the roof frame. Perhaps it was the similarity between these twins names and my sisters and mine, but I was struck by how very different this baby's life would be from my own. Right now she will sleep in a cradle outside, where her family and passers-by can share the responsibility of rocking her to sleep. She will know all about caring for animals and growing things. When she goes to school the trek will be long, if she goes to school at all. She will trek up and down the mountain carrying supplies for her family's restaurant and guest house, which she will likely help run. She will meet trekkers from around the world, but it will be up to her to leave if she chooses. Yet right now she is just a hiccuping baby like many others I know.

On our third day we went to Tadepani, a beautiful little town with a clear (!) view of the Annapurna mountains. We woke up early again to see them, and were not disappointed.












We continued on to Ghorka, a beautiful little town, where we relaxed, visited a local museum with handwritten labels, and ate fresh popcorn off the cob.

We ended our journey back in Pokhara, where we ate dinner with the wonderful women who guided us and carried our bags. Our guides and assistants (as the porters are called) are from 3 Sisters Trekking agency, a women's empowerment organization in Nepal.

Nepal

I have been in Nepal for a week now, and continue to be simultaneously overstimulated and calmed by the flush of color and noise surrounding me. As much as I would like to list every little thing I have seen and done, I know this is impossible from an internet cafe in Pokhora. Instead, I will list a few highlights:

• Everything and everyone I see is colorful. People wear splashes of pigment on their foreheads, between the parts of their hair. Women wear scarves and dresses beaded with sequins. Neighborhood shrines dot the landscape, embellished with gold and red flowers, rice, and pigment. Babies wear eye makeup to make them "ugly" and unappealing to demons. Even the trucks and buses are completely covered with intricate designs -- hands folded in "Namaste" pose, Hindu gods, pictures of mountains, phrases to wish passers-by luck, Nepali flags. "Art" is utilitarian, spiritual, ubiquitous.
  
  
• I simply cannot imagine driving a car here. Technically cars drive on the left in Nepal, but I saw right away that this is more of a guideline than a rule. If traffic is bad, if there is a person walking alongside the road, if a cow gets in the way, if someone is going too slow for your liking . . . you just start driving on the right until on oncoming vehicle forces you to move. Yet somehow when I am in a vehicle I trust that the taxi or bus driver knows the system (or lack thereof) and am able to relax and enjoy the roller coaster.
  
  
  
• The physical geography of this country is gorgeous. Today we took a bus from Gorkha to Pokhara, passing mountains, valleys, lakes, rivers, precarious bridges, swings made of bamboo, grapefruits growing on trees, homes made of clay and tin and stone. Dotted throughout are plastic bottles, bags, and wrappers, a juxtaposition I am starting to become inured to.
  
  
  

The Monkey Temple

On our second day in Kathmandu, we hiked up the the top of a mountain passing monkeys all along the way, and finally reached the Buddhist temple of Swayambunath. The view and architecture were beautiful, but my favorite part were the prayer flags.

Each color of flag represents one of the elements as well as having a prayer printed on it. When they blow in the wind the prayers are carried into the air and spread to the gods and over the people.