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.