tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-83241436635617563722024-03-15T14:04:25.967+05:45Notes from Nepal: Diary of a Himalayan HousewifeMay contain teenager and dog. Monsoon Rose http://www.blogger.com/profile/00999328889578835210noreply@blogger.comBlogger25125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8324143663561756372.post-72646675253162492552014-11-19T13:15:00.001+05:452014-11-19T14:51:43.446+05:45Fellowship of the Barks: Dogwalking Adventures in Kathmandu<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>We don't have fire hydrants. Our sniffable places are way more fun.</i></td></tr>
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I've been terrible at writing my blog lately because I've been so very active with my exciting, exotic life. (Well, I thought I'd try saying that, in case someone who doesn't actually know me stumbles onto this blog.) Plus my camera broke and I'm trying to write a book and I've been busy shopping at my favorite store, Excuses R Us, and also I've been working on becoming more active and healthy and getting in shape for trekking, which is kind of a big part of the point of living in the Himalayas, although to judge from the way most of us really live here, life in Nepal is more about, say, going to Salesway to find out if maybe they actually have tomato paste this season.<br />
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So in order to climb Himalayan peaks, I naturally want to find forms of exercise that don't involve going to the gym all the time. Because ... ummm ... that would be artificial. (I knew Excuses R Us would come through for me.) And it turns out that, according to various calorie counters out there in WebLand, you can burn an amazing number of calories with everyday activities. For instance, ironing burns 88 calories an hour. Setting the table burns 102 calories an hour, so if I'm planning a dinner party that involves a table that takes an hour to set because it's for a wedding in Game of Thrones, that'd work for me. (Plus, if it's a Game of Thrones wedding, there'd be all that cleanup afterwards.)<br />
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"Calories burned walking a dog" supposedly come to 107 calories for only 30 minutes. I could do that. Except for one problem. They don't calculate it by the standards of dogwalking in Kathmandu.<br />
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If you walk the dog in the "developed world" (which as we'll see soon is not in the least "developed" from a canine perspective), you walk along a pristine sidewalk at a moderate-to-brisk pace while the dog sniffs a bit and trots along and you both enjoy the scenery and burn calories and breathe the clean fresh air, and then the dog poops and you scoop it up and put it in a bag and bring it home, and that's about it.<br />
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Here you go adventuring. You collect a Fellowship and leave the safety of the Shire and travel through Dangerous Territories. Let me explain this by describing my Dog Walk this morning. We'll start at our own little hobbit hole, where Sandy hooked up with Khoire, her BFF, who lives in our compound and is sort-of owned by the landlord mainly because she won't leave and they gave up.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXu9hHcWd26eYIbY-RAlHF9ueiA8Tku_m_pJD-S5olylYtkxrWHOP1M-oAhyphenhyphenf8gZO8uIm_ho-7znIYo_O9KHl0iT_jxU2mqOjYrfFeE7a-omaFfY4ic03YlXP2Ih3d4u-XoL9xxCV5jis/s1600/PC020031.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXu9hHcWd26eYIbY-RAlHF9ueiA8Tku_m_pJD-S5olylYtkxrWHOP1M-oAhyphenhyphenf8gZO8uIm_ho-7znIYo_O9KHl0iT_jxU2mqOjYrfFeE7a-omaFfY4ic03YlXP2Ih3d4u-XoL9xxCV5jis/s1600/PC020031.JPG" height="400" width="273" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Local meat shop.<br />With, of course, a street dog hanging around.<br />If you're a dog and you come near, you are competition.</i><br />
<i>And if you're a person, </i><i>that's your pork dinner.</i><br />
<i>Who needs Saran Wrap?</i></td></tr>
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I had to get some eggs, so we went out into the back lane where Khoire and Sandy met up with their friend Panther, a street dog who hangs around outside the house of the lady he followed when she gave him a cookie. She feeds him now, but he isn't really <i>hers, </i>exactly. (I explain the <span style="color: red;"><b><a href="http://toolazyforyoga.blogspot.com/2014/04/sorry-about-rooster.html"><span style="color: red;">categories of dogs in Nepal here</span></a>.)</b></span> With Panther was another friend from the lane, a grizzled brown fellow with a face like an Egyptian pharaoh. Don't ask how this is possible. It just is. Reincarnation, maybe. I don't know if he has an owner, but he's always in the back lane, looking Egyptian.<br />
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Sandy, Khoire, Panther and Pharaoh then went down to the end of the lane, where ... uh oh ... it became the territory of other dogs. Three of them were hanging out in the street. One had a broken leg and was limping, and the others looked ready to blame any other dogs for their friend's broken leg.<br />
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Sandy didn't want to go anywhere near the Gang of Three, but I had to get the eggs, so <i>tug tug pull </i>as the dogs sometimes circled each other and sometimes made strategic formations to block the road and sometimes just stood there frozen and looking pointedly away, <i>"Dog? What dog? I'm not a dog. Nope, don't see any other dogs here," </i>but at any rate Sandy wasn't going in the direction of the egg store, in spite of <i>tug tug pull,</i> until ..<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">... saved by the Spitz! </span><br />
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It was one of those fluffy lap dogs with pointy fox faces and snappy teeth that you always see because they never stop yapping, and people here adore them. They're everywhere. They're turning Kathmandu into that Star Trek episode <i>The Trouble with Tribbles, </i>except yappier.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdyHcWQEL-fNPF3L1ZiaL1xposA1US2Re_BOL8EmZ_RU3Wdzi84Zu8yyakvMiKM_mRmlfCqzFeonS3-6iqITeqgG_AV87KslKcKoLot879qbYiNi9k6O-q5HYfMyTK5nwax7kGEsY7Q-U/s1600/tribbles.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdyHcWQEL-fNPF3L1ZiaL1xposA1US2Re_BOL8EmZ_RU3Wdzi84Zu8yyakvMiKM_mRmlfCqzFeonS3-6iqITeqgG_AV87KslKcKoLot879qbYiNi9k6O-q5HYfMyTK5nwax7kGEsY7Q-U/s1600/tribbles.jpg" height="239" title="If you don't get this, oh well, that's what Google is for. You too can be a Star Trek Expert, with only a few minutes of googling" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Kathmandu, invaded by Japanese Spitzes.</i></td></tr>
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This one was on the end of a leash. A <i>leash? </i>I'm not sure I've ever seen another dog on a leash in our 'hood, besides Sandy. It was probably diamond-studded, because it looked like that kind of Spitz. So since all the other dogs were self-respecting members of the great old noble house of Street Mutt, the two packs -- Sandy's Fellowship and the Gang of Three -- decided to join together and defend their mutual honor and chase away the yappy fluff-mop that was embarrassing them all and causing this blog to conflate Game of Thrones, Lord of the Rings and Star Trek into one mess of a pop culture mash-up, and it was all because of the Spitz.<br />
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But still, the Spitz is the unrecognized hero of the hour, because Spitz and Owner (or maybe Owner's Servant or more likely Spitz's Servant) were heading to the egg store, so as a result I did get to the egg store, really really fast. <i>GET THAT SPITZ!</i><br />
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At that point I was trailed by the Gang of Three and Sandy's Fellowship and wrestling with Sandy to keep her from (a) running south to escape the Gang of Three, (b) running east after the Spitz, (c) running north to join the Gang of Three who turned out to be okay because they all opposed Spitzification, (d) enjoying the garbage on the road because it was there, or (e) all of the above simultaneously.<br />
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How many calories burned? Who knows? There wasn't any distance covered. This is all within a few minutes of my house. But as entertainment, it's pretty good. For both myself and the dog. I feel sorry for American dogs, who don't get to have adventures every time they leave the house. The dogs of Kathmandu travel through territories, gather whole packs of friends, face off rival gangs, make friends with rival gangs, chase roosters,<span style="color: red;"> <b><a href="http://toolazyforyoga.blogspot.com/2013/11/happy-worship-your-dog-day-wheres.html"><span style="color: red;">get their very own holiday when dogs are worshiped</span></a>,</b></span> meet sheep, avoid cows, bark at goats, <i>definitely </i>avoid water buffaloes because they're way too big, roll in muck, and have so many stinky smells to enjoy that if the dogs of the world could pick a vacation spot, this would definitely be it.<br />
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Incidentally, here's another advantage: That part about scooping up poop and bringing it home in a little bag? Not here. Nope. It's a gift that a dog leaves to the other dogs of the 'hood, even the Spitzes if they can smell it through their perfume, and they all enjoy it and the interesting information it surely contains, and as soon as Kathmandu is advertised to the dogs of the world as an Adventure Vacation Destination, that will definitely be one of the perks.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSyhvSylJ-ulvFEU5rQgnRgHbPf0uygod2S8s9kuavYJcplIEpSGTxpKbMLBonyY_eEw1Ok-zw6F8vqrRmKucyVa2XYiOpurXSs2rYB45DbCTDd04S97hJHWV_VeHYFTEk9PLZzPxkKOw/s1600/P2090083.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSyhvSylJ-ulvFEU5rQgnRgHbPf0uygod2S8s9kuavYJcplIEpSGTxpKbMLBonyY_eEw1Ok-zw6F8vqrRmKucyVa2XYiOpurXSs2rYB45DbCTDd04S97hJHWV_VeHYFTEk9PLZzPxkKOw/s1600/P2090083.JPG" height="388" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>See how cool it is to be a Nepali dog?<br />You're always making new friends on your street.</i></td></tr>
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Monsoon Rose http://www.blogger.com/profile/00999328889578835210noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8324143663561756372.post-75057610674281004272014-09-28T16:03:00.000+05:452014-11-19T15:49:40.406+05:45Exodus: It's Dashain Time Again<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Yeah, that'll be us.</i></td></tr>
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Well, it's time to cue up Bob Marley in preparation for sitting for hours behind trucks and buses painted with Bob Marley's smiling visage as we join the exodus of almost everyone from Kathmandu to almost everywhere else in Nepal that isn't Kathmandu.<br />
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It's <span style="color: red;"><b><a href="http://toolazyforyoga.blogspot.com/2013/10/dashain-is-coming-so-are-zombies-i.html"><span style="color: red;">Dashain</span></a> </b></span>again. The biggest holiday of the year. The time of the year to worship the goddess Durga and celebrate her victory over evil by going home to see mom, dad, and all your friends and relatives who have also gone home to mom and dad. Which means ... well, I'll quote Thursday's <i>Himalayan Times:</i><br />
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<i>"Some 1.3 million people have exited from the Valley since September 11, the day when the booking for bus tickets was opened. An additional 1.2 million people are expected to leave the Valley in the coming nine days. </i><i>Some 3,000 buses are said to leave Kathmandu daily for various destinations. An additional 500 buses have been pressed into service this time on the existing fleet of buses."</i><br />
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<i></i>
Over 70 percent of the estimated 4 million people of the Kathmandu Valley come from outside the Valley, and most go back during Dashain. Like, well, us. An estimated 85,000 people are leaving each day -- at the moment.<i> </i>Which is still the <i>good</i> time to go, to beat the crowds.<br />
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We'll be going at the bad time, just before the main days of the festival. So we'll be on the exact same two-lane road as a good chunk of Kathmandu. In fact, we'll all be in the exact same LANE, because all roads may lead to Rome but only one road, basically, leads to Kathmandu, and no one goes <i>in </i>to Kathmandu during Dashain -- if you're in a Kathmandu family you're already here -- so that'll be, what? A hundred thousand people in a single lane?<br />
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Here now, for your Dashain pleasure, is my proposed Road Appropriate Dashain Song. With appropriate scenery and apologies to Bob Marley.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Two trucks bump. All traffic stops, for miles and hours.<br />Because, well, this is the road. All of it. So whaddaya do?</i></td></tr>
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<i>Exodus, movement of Nepali people</i><br />
<i>Exodus, movement of Nepali people</i><br />
<i></i><br />
<i></i>
<i>Men and people will fight you down</i><br />
<i>If you try to get a ticket late</i><br />
<i>Let me tell you, if you can sit in the bus aisle</i><br />
<i>Everything is all right</i><br />
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<i></i>
<i>We're the patient nation </i><br />
<i>Trod through many tribulation</i><br />
<i>So we gonna ride, alright</i><br />
<i>Up and down, up and down on the highway</i><br />
<i>Then we gonna walk, alright</i><br />
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<i>Up and down, up and down on the mountain </i><br />
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<i>Exodus, movement of Nepali people</i><br />
<i>Exodus, movement of Nepali people</i><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZQpx9UH1Y2DAToSdfOM9qtR0hrSEEpao00RiXJhlgdc-YP-mZ8KdmJCGhIfniIpaEV5kijNzkdmMJumG5m1aj8zBjkeAjlGoI-214lMVTo3-D2bhAvoF8HDeLZfh1K1cJC95XUEOwNhk/s1600/DSC01587.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZQpx9UH1Y2DAToSdfOM9qtR0hrSEEpao00RiXJhlgdc-YP-mZ8KdmJCGhIfniIpaEV5kijNzkdmMJumG5m1aj8zBjkeAjlGoI-214lMVTo3-D2bhAvoF8HDeLZfh1K1cJC95XUEOwNhk/s1600/DSC01587.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Seriously? You want to name your truck<br />after a famous disaster?</i></td></tr>
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<i></i><br />
<i>We know where we're going</i><br />
<i>We know where we're from</i><br />
<i>We're leaving Kathmandu</i><br />
<i>We're going to our fatherland</i><br />
<i>Send us another Durga</i><br />
<i>Gonna part this traffic jam, alright</i><br />
<i></i><br />
<i></i>
<i>Exodus, m</i><i>ovement of Nepali people</i><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBdnBEbG7ayiuvFpmG_pbMnNQ7DTIawGvBr05vkkAzutLLH2uIyDZFBRShaOnLq-QCYCqZii-Fm-4HKYCxQuq0SrFmShi1vLesWiHe3kdmx53nj_XmSrzsW7Pip8A2-UuEoKmFOSs4y7g/s1600/Nepal+photos+Fall+139.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><br /></a><i>Exodus, m</i><i>ovement of Nepali people</i><br />
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<i>Move Move Move Move <span style="font-size: large;">Move MOVE,</span> you darn traffic!</i></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgxbmoSUSNFe9VAnb9SfUbuXdb6RaxraN8bqqzwYq7askGOY7zdyA9-nQT5M2pIBWD0v2roZKjaBTgPwJiefzeisYGXGkHZbwQ4HcSlsuD06uDPxsLG8Hc0SSl0zP84oPWHWzUPlNdiro/s1600/PA130300.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgxbmoSUSNFe9VAnb9SfUbuXdb6RaxraN8bqqzwYq7askGOY7zdyA9-nQT5M2pIBWD0v2roZKjaBTgPwJiefzeisYGXGkHZbwQ4HcSlsuD06uDPxsLG8Hc0SSl0zP84oPWHWzUPlNdiro/s1600/PA130300.JPG" height="240" title="Handsome sophisticated nephew. AKA budding film hero." width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>But it's worth it, right?</i></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3jCKaF9MLFWATjSFP0p08bPXgZ6o8ssqtJF0RLJbn50gThdKMGNxa2aKZmcg3B_GnSM4Fmf_Gmy1PT28bsGvHAbOX12LE3skHObALV6s57SoWi5-291KPLxHIj06eqZANiwIp28qiJyo/s1600/PA130307.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3jCKaF9MLFWATjSFP0p08bPXgZ6o8ssqtJF0RLJbn50gThdKMGNxa2aKZmcg3B_GnSM4Fmf_Gmy1PT28bsGvHAbOX12LE3skHObALV6s57SoWi5-291KPLxHIj06eqZANiwIp28qiJyo/s1600/PA130307.JPG" height="240" title="Lovely elegant niece. AKA the star student. As you can tell. Very Durga-like." width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Because you get to see your family!</i></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: x-large; text-align: center;"> दुर्गा पूजा २०७१ को उपलक्ष्य मा हार्दिक शुभकामना</span><span style="font-size: x-large; text-align: center;"> !</span></div>
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Monsoon Rose http://www.blogger.com/profile/00999328889578835210noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8324143663561756372.post-66316670673071407772014-09-02T11:44:00.003+05:452014-11-19T15:50:50.384+05:45Landslide Season<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>We had tea there; now it's in the news. What's left of it.</i></td></tr>
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This restaurant looks awfully familiar. That is to say, both "familiar" and "awful."<br />
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There were two lethal landslides last week, and one hit a place with a quirkily typical Nepali name, Typical Restaurant, in a village with an even better name, Pumdibhumdi. It's such a good name I wish I had an excuse to say it over and over, under better circumstances.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>If you want to go to (or leave) Pumdibhumdi,<br />learn to row. Or pay the lady in back.</i><br />
<i>Who, you'll notice, was not given a lifejacket.</i><br />
<i>Because Nepal.</i></td></tr>
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We've been there. It is (or was) on the banks of Phewa Tal in Pokhara, on the side of the lake that's all green, as opposed to the side that's all tourists and pina coladas. The inspiration for the hike was the lady in the picture at right, who lives there. The lady at the oars, not the one sitting there looking like some colonial memsahib. I'd try to Photoshop myself onto the oars to give a much better impression, but that would lose the whole point, which is that while she was rowing we talked to her, and she's from Pumdibhumdi and makes her living plying boats across Phewa Tal, which is also how her kids get to school in Pokhara, because their village has no road. We were so amazed that there was no road to a village directly across from Margaritaville Nepal, aka Pokhara's Lakeside, that we figured we'd find out for ourselves what the area was like.<br />
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It turned out to involve trees, cliffs, more trees, and more cliffs. You couldn't really get close to the lake; it was all too steep and forested. We were grateful that one trail somehow led us accidentally down down down onto the aforementioned Typical Restaurant with its tea and boats. The whole place was a landslide waiting to happen. But then again, so is much of Nepal.<br />
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The landslide, when it did finally happen, took the lives of four sleeping workers, ages 18 to 28. I'm not sure what the landslide toll is this year, but it seems to have been eight just last week: the four at Typical Restaurant and four at yet another landslide in Sindhupalchowk, which is the same district where a landslide a few weeks ago drowned a village, killing around 200 people, displacing thousands, blocking the only highway to Tibet, and creating a new lake where the road and highway used to be. (I use the term "highway" loosely, in the Nepali sense, which basically means a paved road that goes somewhere important and may possibly, but not necessarily, have up to two lanes.)<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>This used to be a village.<br />Also the only road north from Kathmandu to China.<br />The Sunkoshi River swelled into a lake after a landslide.</i></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;"><i>People are raising funds<br />and supplies for victims of the Sunkoshi landslide through campaigns <br />such as <a href="http://www.cartmandap.com/fillthebucket">Fill The Bucket</a></i></td></tr>
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Which is, of course, terrible. And if you live here, it also means things like: To drive or not to drive? I've been wanting to go to the village for the Teej festival, and going to the village, like going anywhere out of Kathmandu, involves this long and winding road ...<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwGzHxd7EDjISCH8UFX_gQVO3r_72A8m1lMtY8GYbpw6cBlMf79dz528C24WAMM901b7nzAFM4zCoCWO6V0IMhiJJ1FsWI7lKoIosDmHmK6-30OsMl5W5yVwcvGgB2eMW8LACLmIQ24dY/s1600/prithvi+highway.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwGzHxd7EDjISCH8UFX_gQVO3r_72A8m1lMtY8GYbpw6cBlMf79dz528C24WAMM901b7nzAFM4zCoCWO6V0IMhiJJ1FsWI7lKoIosDmHmK6-30OsMl5W5yVwcvGgB2eMW8LACLmIQ24dY/s1600/prithvi+highway.JPG" height="284" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>The Prithvi Highway, which is how you drive into and out of Kathmandu from basically anywhere. <br />Kathmandu is a valley, and traditionally it was wonderfully well fortified, being located -- well, HERE. <br />So nowadays, whether you're a truck carrying goods to feed and clothe the city's millions <br />and supply us with fuel for our traffic jams and buffaloes for our momos, </i><br />
<i>or whether you're in a bus or car, you'll almost certainly approach or leave it on this two-lane road west.</i><br />
<i> You take it to go east from Kathmandu, too. Driving east </i><i>involves driving west </i><i>for four hours </i><br />
<i>until </i><i>you drop south, reach the plains at Narayangarh and find ... ANOTHER ROAD!</i><br />
<i>Then you can fiinally start east. </i><i>OK, there was also a road north to Tibet (China.) It's a lake now.</i><br />
<i>And there's a southern road, the Hetauda Road, but it's often one lane. (How do you like backing up in mountains?)<br />So this is pretty much it, folks.</i></td></tr>
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But I have a strong preference for not getting caught in a landslide. Or on the other side of one, since we'd have to wait it out while the newly formed hill was cleared or a trail built over it. (About 600 tourists trapped on the Tibet side of the Sunkoshi landslide were ferried out by helicopters. WIMPS. I'd wait to walk out, like all the Nepalis. But then again, I don't have a plane to catch. Or anyone offering to pay for my helicopter.) See the trail below? That's over a landslide that blocked a road for so long it got onto maps.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhovHXi3aHJkg6UrQrcGWdyLciO0QsjlryULcYkkN9qyXwiN4R6cuSYCokWS5pUWICUqy_W7gnmYBYjrvraKv8wvq2XxKEeP6XfdSzTaRtoigP5HLUCW27jsfo8dJ4VLsnwtrla0huqh-k/s1600/DSC00016-001.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhovHXi3aHJkg6UrQrcGWdyLciO0QsjlryULcYkkN9qyXwiN4R6cuSYCokWS5pUWICUqy_W7gnmYBYjrvraKv8wvq2XxKEeP6XfdSzTaRtoigP5HLUCW27jsfo8dJ4VLsnwtrla0huqh-k/s1600/DSC00016-001.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>How to get across a landslide.<br />This is on the "motor road" on the western loop of the Annapurna Circuit --</i><br />
<i>specifically, in Myagdi district between Beni and Tatopani on the way to Mustang / Muktinath.<br />We had to get out of the bus, trek up and over the Landslide Mountain<br />(about 45 minutes, as I recall, with my elderly but tough Nepali in-laws),<br />and then get on another bus on the other side. Private vehicles, for obvious reasons, weren't an option.</i></td></tr>
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Anyway, we decided if it didn't rain steadily for two days, the ground would be okay (in Nepali Roulette terms), and it only rained a little bit, so we did end up going to the village. Along the way, on the stretch of the Prithvi Highway between Kathmandu and Naubise marked by tight hairpin turns and vertical walls of rock and dirt along which trees and bushes cling gamely but unconvincingly -- the stretch that, if you live here, you probably think of as "the <i>really</i> steep part" (because, like Eskimos with all those ways of perceiving snow, you've learned to differentiate "<i>really </i>steep" from various other levels of steep) -- we counted <i>TEN LANDSLIDES. </i>Little baby ones. They were just covering a bit of the road, but weren't blocking it. Yet. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>The </i><i> road is actually very pleasant, in its way.</i><br />
<i>To the right, there's a dropoff (down down down) to the Trishuli River;</i><br />
<i>to the left, that's a wall of dirt (hopefully not ready to fall).</i><br />
<i>Wonder what's around the corner ...</i></td></tr>
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Feel like a monsoon drive? It's not too bad. Most of the time.<br />
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Monsoon Rose http://www.blogger.com/profile/00999328889578835210noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8324143663561756372.post-37408892968988518842014-08-22T15:18:00.000+05:452014-08-22T15:34:02.882+05:45Stop the Presses!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Finally, in the epic saga of Waiting For Godot's Constitution: Year VII, we have progress.<br />
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It's right there on the front page: <b>CA Panel Agrees on Title of New Constitution.</b><br />
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In case you're either (a) not in Nepal or (b) in Nepal but have the good sense to avoid reading about politics, I will helpfully reprint the lead paragraph from The Himalayan Times, which reveals the Biggest Stop-the-Presses News To Ever Emerge Out of the Constitution Writer's Workshop and Coffee Club.</div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">A meeting of the Constitutional-Political Dialogue and Consensus Committee </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">headed by Unified CPM-Maoist leader Baburam Bhattarai meeting today </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; text-align: justify;">agreed on the title of the new constitution. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; text-align: justify;">The new constitution will be called </span></span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; text-align: justify;">Nepal’s Constitution.</span></div>
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Yes! A name! Seven long years have we waited, as the space probe Dawn got most of the way to the Ceres Asteroid Belt, and three generations of elephants were gestated and born, and the spirit of Magellan circumnavigated the globe twice, and World War II was fought and won, and Shakespeare wrote his first 14 plays, and Bollywood produced 7,000 films ...</div>
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... in that length of time, the committee has written two actual words for the Constitution. The title. And that's the most important part, right?</div>
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I'm sure the fact that Nepal's Constitution will be called Nepal's Constitution comes as a relief to anyone who worried it
might be called India’s Constitution. The argument, actually, was over whether it should simply be known as Nepal’s Constitution, in plain old Constitution Next Door style, or if it should receive an impressive middle name, like Federal or Republic or Pro-Socialist. Personally I’m in favor of calling it WRITE ME. Or INSERT CONSTITUTION HERE. But we here in the Land That Proves Anarchy Can Work (As Long As All the Young People Go to Qatar) will take what we can get and rejoice.</div>
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Now I think I can make a
prediction. In another seven years, we will have a first sentence. Let me suggest Call Me Ishmael, which is short enough to be written in seven years. And
then we can wait as our esteemed Constituent Assembly Members go off to hunt the white whale. That’s good, because whales are smart, and by the time
they find it, the whale should have evolved hands, so maybe it will be able to
write the rest of the document for them.</div>
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But what I still want to know is: Who gets the rights to the HBO mini series?</div>
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Monsoon Rose http://www.blogger.com/profile/00999328889578835210noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8324143663561756372.post-23530553693429705372014-06-12T14:54:00.000+05:452014-06-13T15:22:18.469+05:45500 Miles to Bollywood: How an American Tune Went South Asian<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I often think that old American folk songs would be wonderful in Nepali. All those songs about being down and out and far from home would translate perfectly to, say, the plight of a remittance worker. In fact, I'd thought that somebody should put <i>500 Miles </i>into Nepali. It would be a great hit, right?<br />
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Turns out it already was. Although it changed a bit in translation.<br />
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The other day I came outside while our driver was cleaning the car -- oh be quiet, folks in America, you wish you had a driver too, just like I wish I had roads that didn't resemble a bumper car rally (or would if I tried to drive myself) -- and he had it on the radio. "Hey," I said, "I know that song. It's American." <br />
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"They must have stolen it," he scowled. Which is his default expression anyway. He used to be a Maoist guerrilla and it's a long story, but he fought a revolution and now the roads are <i>full </i>of terrible drivers and he is not happy about that at all. "It's from an old Hindi movie. It's a classic."<br />
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"We didn't steal it. You guys stole it. Really, it's American," I said, "and I can sing along." Hindi is close enough to Nepali that I figured I'd easily spot the not-too-challenging lyrics: <i>lord I'm one, lord I'm two, lord I'm three, lord I'm four, lord I'm five hundred miles away from home.</i><br />
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Nothing of the sort came out of the radio. "Well, OK, I can HUM along." And I did. Yet he was unconvinced. It's apparently a classic Bollywood love song played at weddings and family gatherings, and everyone loves it because it's so sweet, as you can see in this touching scene wherein two men gaze lovingly into each others' eyes and waltz together.<br />
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<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">(Note: If you do "subscribe by email" you'll just see some blank air below. Although that's elegantly minimalistic, it doesn't quite convey what I mean. Click the title at the top, which I think is blue in email, and it'll take you to the blog to enjoy these lovely musical moments.)</span></i><br />
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If you're American or European and actually watched that, STOP LAUGHING. In case you can't stop, I can make you, because here is what it's copied from, performed sweetly and sadly in 1965 by Joan Baez, who can never make anyone laugh, EVER. Dear Nepalis and Indians: Notice the audience singing along through their tears, so they're already familiar with this song<i> </i>in 1965. Which means it came before <i style="color: #222222; line-height: 18.479999542236328px;">Jab Koi Baat Bigad Jaaye. </i><span style="color: #222222; line-height: 18.479999542236328px;">Really. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; line-height: 18.479999542236328px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Westerners may be curious to know how the lyrics of our old campfire favorite translate into Hindi. It seems like a natural, doesn't it? Five hundred miles from home, not a shirt to my back, not a rupee to my name. Great stuff! Well, h</span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: inherit; line-height: 18.479999542236328px;">ere's what Bollywood does with it, in the 1990 hit film <i>Jurm. </i>Which, incidentally, is a police drama, so those waltzing guys must be singing policemen. It's called <i>Jab Koi Baat Bigad Jaaye, </i>which means <i>When Things Go Wrong.</i></span><br />
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<i style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; line-height: 18.479999542236328px;">Whenever there is a problem</span></span></i></i></div>
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<i style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; line-height: 18.479999542236328px;">Stand by me, my beloved</span></span></i></i></div>
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<i style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; line-height: 18.479999542236328px;">There never has been nor ever was</span></span></i></i></div>
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<i style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; line-height: 18.479999542236328px;">Anyone other than you in my life</span></span></i></i></div>
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Uh, OK. But that's not the first time it's had a rewrite. <i>Five Hundred Miles </i>is attributed to folksinger Hedy West in a 1961 copyright and was a staple of the folk revival of the 1960s, but this was before lawyers discovered the entertainment industry, because Hedy West's "creation" can be traced back at least as far as 1898. And it's had a lot of musical offspring. First up: A strikingly similar tune called <i>Nine Hundred Miles. </i>It<i> </i>was first recorded in 1924 by a Fiddlin' John Carson. Here's the legendary folk musician and civil rights activist Odetta knocking everyone's socks off in 1963 with her bluesy take on <i>Nine Hundred Miles. </i><br />
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It also has a twin called Reuben's Train, first recorded in 1931 by a Kentucky musician named Emry Arthur (who also recorded the first version of Man of Constant Sorrow in 1928). Here it's being picked by the great bluegrass band The Dillards in 1963. Sounds pretty familiar ...<br />
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Come to think of it, they're actually triplets. Here's an alternate version in the bluegrass and old-time music world called Train 45; several early recordings came out in 1927. (A list of early recordings of all these versions <span style="color: red;"><a href="http://www.banjohangout.org/archive/169367"><span style="color: red;">can be found here</span></a>.</span>) Here's how it sounds from the bluegrass legend Ralph Stanley, which has helpful subtitles in case any Nepali or Indian readers are still not convinced that the original version wasn't a Bollywood love song:<br />
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In all of the versions of <i>500 Miles </i>or its predecessors, whether from Woody Guthrie (1944) or Peter, Paul and Mary (1962) or any number of folk musicians, some poor fellow is far from home, or "going where the chilly winds don't blow," or "trying to read a letter from my home," and he wants to "railroad no more" or get back home where he belongs. It's a mix-and-match quilt of classic folk lyrics, stuck into a tune that can be touchingly sad or soulfully bluesy or full-steam-ahead bluegrass. But I must say that Bollywood is the first to see its potential as a wedding song. </div>
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So that's how a piece of Americana ended up on radio stations in Nepal as a "golden oldie" from 1990 called <i>J</i><i style="color: #222222; line-height: 18.479999542236328px;">ab Koi Baat Bigad Jaaye.</i> It also goes to show that if Bollywood wants to do a knock-off of the tune, they're welcome to it, because everyone else has fiddled with it too. But seriously -- why did they change lyrics that would work so fantastically in this part of the world and turn it into total schmaltz?!? </div>
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Although I do like the guys waltzing together. That was a nice touch. </div>
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Monsoon Rose http://www.blogger.com/profile/00999328889578835210noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8324143663561756372.post-84282147150448389742014-05-27T08:47:00.000+05:452014-05-28T10:20:11.619+05:45Nepal's Health Care System, Part I: Let's Visit a Pharmacy!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdR5ElXIs8LK96qlbS7iRnwECVaH-o6n9DsQIumP9xtdadQM5GNmjCoqWh5Na_uhePKtfDy4WCdU_-cmLYIJXxMhzjfkopxNsERXWimERHWuFW3PI_DjP6fqr9k0vnqzKHSS_aUIjrokI/s1600/kathmandu+pharmacy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdR5ElXIs8LK96qlbS7iRnwECVaH-o6n9DsQIumP9xtdadQM5GNmjCoqWh5Na_uhePKtfDy4WCdU_-cmLYIJXxMhzjfkopxNsERXWimERHWuFW3PI_DjP6fqr9k0vnqzKHSS_aUIjrokI/s1600/kathmandu+pharmacy.jpg" height="300" title="I grabbed this from a blog by a tourist (julesmd.blogspot.com.) It's just an ordinary everyday pharmacy. We probably have 5 or 6 within a few minutes' walk, and I'll add my own pic when I find the camera wire. " width="400" /></a></div>
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It occurs to me that if you're in Nepal, you'll surely get sick at some point. And that means you'll have to navigate the Health Care System, part of which is helpfully shown above. If you're a tourist who stumbled onto this blog while trying to figure out what's wrong with your stomach, my advice would be: Check your guidebook. It'll tell you useful things like "go to <a href="http://ciwec-clinic.com/"><span style="color: red;"><b>CIWEC Clinic</b></span></a>," which is an internationally famous traveler's medicine clinic, and since you have health insurance back home and a credit card you won't mind paying the prices. (They're triple the norm, or maybe ten times. I can't remember, because the last time I asked, my wallet jumped up and hit me on the head. Helpful hint: The doctors at CIWEC have outside practices, too, at non-tourist prices.)<br />
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But if you live here, what you really do is check sites like WebMD and then go to the local hole-in-the-wall pharmacy to get whatever you've diagnosed yourself with, because living in Nepal has magically turned you into a doctor and if the internet was any faster you'd soon become a specialist. Then they try to sell you Cipro.<br />
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This is an actual transcript of my recent trip to our local storefront pharmacy. Incidentally, everything is over-the-counter here. Especially Cipro.<br />
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<b>Me:</b> I need some medicine that starts with D. It's kind of like Brucet but with a D. It's for foot pain.<br />
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<b>Pharmacy clerk:</b> <i>(showing me Brucet, which is ibuprofen)</i> It's not this?<br />
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<b>Me: </b>No, that's Brucet. It starts with D and the pills are little and round. I had the package but I lost it.<br />
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<b>Pharmacy Clerk:</b> Do you have a prescription?<br />
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<b>Me:</b> A prescription? Ha ha ha, this is Nepal!<br />
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<b>All Pharmacy Clerks and Customers in Unison: </b>Ha ha ha ha ha!<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Much of this is probably Cipro</i></td></tr>
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<b>Pharmacy Clerk: </b><i>(Goes to shelf and starts pulling down boxes that start with D)</i> Is it this? Or this? Or this?<br />
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<b>Me:</b> No .... no .... no, that's vitamins ... no, that's eye drops ...<br />
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<b>Pharmacy Clerk: </b>Or this one.<br />
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<b>Me: </b>That's Cipro. It starts with D and it's definitely not Cipro.<br />
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<b>Pharmacy Clerk: </b><i>(Glancing at shelves piled high with dusty pill boxes.) </i>That's all we have.<br />
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<i>I don't leave, because success in Nepali is achieved by the patient. (Um, this is definitely not a pun.) Other customers come to the window. They probably get Cipro, because every time you go to the pharmacy you will be offered vitamins and Cipro, which if you're American you'll recall as the super-potent antibiotic to treat terrorist-induced anthrax, but here is used for things like ear wax removal. </i><i>The pharmacy person ignores me to chat with other pharmacy people, give people Cipro and vitamins, and check Facebook on her cell phone. I stand there patiently and smile. After a few minutes I catch the eye of another Pharmacy Person.</i><br />
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<b>Me:</b> I need a medicine for foot pain that starts with D. It's a little white pill and it's like Brucet but it's not. Also it's not Cipro and it's not anything like Cipro.<br />
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<b>Pharmacy Clerk 2:</b> <i> (Looks at other Pharmacy People. None of them move. Checks cell phone. Apparently Facebook has no updates. Comes over and begins pulling down boxes.) </i>Is it this? Or this?<br />
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<b>Me:</b> <i>(reading label) </i>No, that's a vitamin. It starts with D.<br />
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<b>Pharmacy Clerk 2:</b> Is it this one?<br />
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<b>Me: </b>Yes, that's it! Thanks, you've been so helpful!<br />
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And now you know how to get medicine in Nepal. It's actually quite convenient. OK, it won't be so convenient when we all get antibiotic resistance from using Cipro on earwax. But oh well, we can always go to the shamans. My husband had typhoid as a kid and his parents called the shaman, who made him eat the gall bladder of a bear and pigeon poop. At least he didn't get antibiotic resistance. Although he's pretty resistant to another round of bear gall and pigeon poop.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihq2cxP-1k5FWYCtOkXPFFljW7gSANSDtOXukoQyVaXzA-mD2IZ3aTUR7CHXQzqtkInuQL0vNqmPoHPa6OApd8ct7hw7v-6QQfclq8LHQtv8hD6obg11ga_5pq2zQuE8AoLfK8sCMDO50/s1600/JhankriPrayas_20110206090625.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihq2cxP-1k5FWYCtOkXPFFljW7gSANSDtOXukoQyVaXzA-mD2IZ3aTUR7CHXQzqtkInuQL0vNqmPoHPa6OApd8ct7hw7v-6QQfclq8LHQtv8hD6obg11ga_5pq2zQuE8AoLfK8sCMDO50/s1600/JhankriPrayas_20110206090625.jpg" height="240" title="" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Also available in Nepal: shamans. </i><br />
<i>Try this to treat resistant bacteria. </i></td></tr>
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Monsoon Rose http://www.blogger.com/profile/00999328889578835210noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8324143663561756372.post-50954177005005099482014-05-09T12:11:00.000+05:452014-05-10T15:19:22.249+05:45How Nepal Beats America For Women. Really.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Tharu woman in my family's village. You can bet she votes.<br />And if she ran for office, her chances would be better than a woman in America.</i></td></tr>
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I make fun of Nepal a fair amount in this random collection of stray musings that serves as my blog, because if you live here and aren't entertained by it you might as well pack up and go home. Unless you're Nepali, of course, in which case (a) you don't have much choice of leaving unless you want to carry bricks in Saudi Arabia, and (b) you at least have the good fortune to be genetically programmed to be perhaps the smiliest group of people on earth, which is evolution's way of saying "I can cope with being Nepali."<br />
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I've gotten off topic even before I started, but it's true. Nepalis even smile and laugh when they argue, and when they're <i>really </i>pissed, the smiling and laughing increases. Nature vs. nurture? Well, my kid basically emerged from the womb with a big grin on his face, which is why it took me at least a decade to realize he was arguing with me.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Smile smile smile.<br />And if you can't, here's where you go<br />to get your teeth fixed.</i></td></tr>
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So of course I rag on Nepal, which is what Nepalis do too, all the time. It's the national entertainment, along with smiling and laughing. But there are a lot of ways that Nepal beats America, other than the Smile Factor and the Lack of Electricity Factor. There's the Casual Pace of Life Factor, and the Walkable Neighborhood Factor, and the Supporting Small Business Factor, and the Better Public Transportation If You Ignore the Belching Smoke Factor, and the Groovier Clothing Factor, and so on.<br />
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The one I'm mentioning here, though, is women's rights.<br />
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<i><span style="font-size: large;">Huh?</span> Are we talking about the Nepal on THIS planet?<span style="font-size: large;"> </span></i><br />
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Well, women don't exactly have more rights in daily life, obviously. Women here are still the household drudge -- even, by and large, if they're a professor or a doctor. But Nepal is beating America in one place that's pretty important: Women in government.<br />
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You might think this is because most of the men are off carrying bricks in Saudi Arabia, which may be part of it. But it's a good sign. I mean, I like Nepali men. They smile a lot. I married one, and he's honest and hard-working and doesn't even mind doing dishes, although he may be a little crazy because he came back here after escaping. (So I guess we match on the craziness index. Although he's better about dishes than me. I'm not <i>that </i>crazy.)<br />
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But the thing about Nepal is that it gets a lot of things right by accident, like having walkable neighborhoods, but doesn't exactly score high in terms of <i>intentional </i>things, like running a government. What politicians mainly seem to do is squabble, bicker and steal money. So politics in Nepal is a ridiculous mess, but at least it's a ridiculous mess that is starting to let women in. And you can bet that Nepali women know how to carry a broom. Which could come in handy in the halls of power.<br />
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Meanwhile in America, almost 100 years after women got the vote, we barely squeak past 18 percent in women's representation. Whereas Nepal is now at 30 percent and 37th in the world for women in office.<br />
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Okay, women in power aren't magically wonderful. But it's kind of impossible to be <i>worse </i>than men. Let's hope that when Nepali women politicians go home after a hard day of not writing the constitution, their husbands aren't sitting there waiting for them to bring the tea, whip up a five-course dinner, scrub the dishes alone, and then get up at 5 a.m. to do the whole thing over again while he talks politics with his friends.<br />
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So<span style="color: red;"><b> <a href="http://www.npr.org/blogs/parallels/2014/05/08/310719495/the-nation-that-elects-the-most-women-is?utm_source=facebook.com&utm_medium=social&utm_campaign=npr&utm_term=nprnews&utm_content=20140508#"><span style="color: red;">which country in the world elects the most women?</span></a> </b></span>The leader is apparently Rwanda, where things got <i>so </i>bad that it seems the women have finally told the guys to move over and get out of the way. <b><span style="color: red;"><a href="http://www.ipu.org/wmn-e/classif.htm#1"><span style="color: red;">The whole list is here</span></a>,</span></b> if you want to know where America stands and who else is ahead of us -- like Finland (number 8 and embarrassing the rest of the world as always), Norway and Denmark and Sweden (of course), and New Zealand (number 26 and beating Australia because it has an incentive). They all beat France and the U.K., which Nepal does too, but America is huffing and puffing way back in the line with the United Arab Emirates.<br />
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Obviously a list doesn't tell us much. China, Afghanistan and <a href="http://english.alarabiya.net/articles/2013/01/11/259881.html"><b><span style="color: red;">Saudi Arabia</span></b></a> also top America in "women's representation," so it's time again to google who the heck said that thing about "Lies, Damn Lies and Statistics." But Nepalis can definitely look at the list and crow. Check out India, Bangladesh, Sri Lanka and Bhutan. All of which are trailing far behind Nepal, America and, er, Saudi Arabia like a sad line of bedraggled ducklings who can barely find the racetrack.<br />
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Let's hear it for Nepali women: strong, cool, and increasingly elected to office.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Women of Dolakha district, in the mid-hills. You can bet they vote, too. </i><br />
<i>They'll also beat you walking uphill. Both of them.</i></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>My mother-in-law is illterate and was married at age seven.<br />She has run for local office from a women's rights group.</i></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVaDJAJvKRERhB3DFt53xjWmczeq-k_wJWxMMo7oz2KdIK_cUhNLYu5uc1hRNqjrahjPqgU1Ex8w0tw0s9jzLqKHTb1HJRpdKCpWQsyb8d3ADPaYKmbKbe9pvLZigmmokeHfy7OADMMyo/s1600/tempo+driver.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVaDJAJvKRERhB3DFt53xjWmczeq-k_wJWxMMo7oz2KdIK_cUhNLYu5uc1hRNqjrahjPqgU1Ex8w0tw0s9jzLqKHTb1HJRpdKCpWQsyb8d3ADPaYKmbKbe9pvLZigmmokeHfy7OADMMyo/s1600/tempo+driver.jpg" height="265" title="This is the only pic here that's not mine. The photographer is Shilu Manandhar (yeah, she's a woman); the article, translated from Nepali, was put online by the Global Press Journal as "Nepal's First Female Tempo Driver Establishes Reliable Route to Financial Independence."" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Woman tempo driver, Kathmandu.</i><br />
<i>Tempos are the multi-seat motor rickshaws that are called tuk-tuks in Thailand</i><br />
<i>and by foreigners who don't know that's not what they're called here.</i></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG2j5nG4w6cuFKOkFXjEvRGtnYmbHKrj_cvEMzAuSL1a9NS4vPD6lvYgT3ffB8sCNshWSC6_Dkthw5NR4weV1g_uEZ-_lL8PbC9g0J6Q8afB2fTndngvIh2MAsKpP0plzhJvo2EgOikGM/s1600/DSC00361.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG2j5nG4w6cuFKOkFXjEvRGtnYmbHKrj_cvEMzAuSL1a9NS4vPD6lvYgT3ffB8sCNshWSC6_Dkthw5NR4weV1g_uEZ-_lL8PbC9g0J6Q8afB2fTndngvIh2MAsKpP0plzhJvo2EgOikGM/s1600/DSC00361.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>The girls of Mustang, coming on strong. </i></td></tr>
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<b>All together now ........ </b><b><span style="font-size: large;">Nepal! WE'RE </span><span style="font-size: x-large;">37</span><span style="font-size: large;">th!</span></b></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipOFUQBiA99OXL5KyZrThD37BXiRf6V5_hVy92ZBXmA0jdbTJ5nCCYk4gHG3r2QQsyseV_GHVAR2xIUiEZUaqv3ZyS_Kyj3sg5ZFUyGsYzsbgPnueecmX6jd7yC9ju0wLfDOFDK9zFcl0/s1600/PC040055.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipOFUQBiA99OXL5KyZrThD37BXiRf6V5_hVy92ZBXmA0jdbTJ5nCCYk4gHG3r2QQsyseV_GHVAR2xIUiEZUaqv3ZyS_Kyj3sg5ZFUyGsYzsbgPnueecmX6jd7yC9ju0wLfDOFDK9zFcl0/s1600/PC040055.JPG" height="480" title="I guess the women were somewhere else, getting some work done." width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Oh whoops. No women in the picture. Hmmm.</i></td></tr>
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Monsoon Rose http://www.blogger.com/profile/00999328889578835210noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8324143663561756372.post-32822880847744796602014-05-04T13:22:00.000+05:452014-05-28T10:18:37.453+05:45Who Needs Math at a Vet's Office?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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My dog Sandy is not a Siberian Husky. But don't tell that to the veterinarian's assistant.<br />
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This morning, on our regular walk, I noticed that Sandy had a worm in her poo. I am very sorry for writing two posts in a row that mention dog poo, but that's just how it goes sometimes. Be glad I didn't take pictures. It was long, white, wiggly, and busy. Having been unceremoniously dumped from its old home, the worm's little head was poking around in the air searching for a new set of cozy intestines.<br />
<br />
That called for a walk to the vet's office. This is Nepal, so you don't call to make an appointment for a week from Thursday and bring the dog over for lab tests. You just walk over, minus dog, unless the dog is really sick. (Roundworms don't count around here. That would be like going to an ENT doc for the sniffles.)<br />
<br />
An assistant was on duty. This is a rough transcript of the conversation, helpfully translated:<br />
<br />
<b>Me: </b>My dog has worms. I need to get some de-worming pills.<br />
<br />
<b>Vet's Assistant: </b>How many kilograms is your dog?<br />
<br />
<b>Me:</b> Oh, I'm not good at converting from kilograms, but she's 25 pounds. You can convert it on the calculator.<br />
<br />
<b>Vet's Assistant:</b> <i>(Ignores calculator. Hands over three huge pills) </i>Give her these.<br />
<br />
<b>Me: </b>Wow, they're big. One each day?<br />
<br />
<b>Vet's Assistant: </b>No, all at once Put them in some ground meat.<br />
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<b>Me: </b>That seems like a lot at once.<br />
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<b>Vet's Assistant: </b>Yeah, they're for 10 kg each.<br />
<br />
<b>Me: </b>But she's only 25 pounds.<br />
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<b>Vet's Assistant: </b>25 pounds. That's like 25 kg.<br />
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<b>Me: </b>Uh, no it's not.<br />
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<b>Vet's Assistant: </b>She must be a really big dog.<br />
<br />
<b>Me: </b>No, not at all. She's a regular local dog. Do you know how to convert pounds to kg?<br />
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<b>Vet's Assistant: </b><i>(laughs, smiles, looks vaguely at calculator) </i>Ha ha.<br />
<br />
<b>Me: </b>Ha ha. Because I think three pills is too much medicine for my dog.<br />
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<b>Vet's Assistant: </b>Ha ha. Give it with some meat, she'll swallow it all that way.<br />
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<b>Me: </b>I think I'll go home and do the conversion myself.<br />
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<b>Vet's Assistant: </b>That'll be 150 rupees.<br />
<br />
I went home and did the conversion. Well, first I asked The Teenager, who is quite possibly the worst student in his school in Math, and might be even worse than I was, which is some kind of world record -- and who, this being a weekend morning, was still in bed and not happy to be asked a mental math problem. "If Sandy is 25 pounds, how many kg is that?" said I to the sleepy teenager. "<i>Mmph grrr. </i>That's about 11 kg," he groused, and rolled over.<br />
<br />
Indeed. And it turns out that 25 kg is around 55 pounds. Which is the weight of a Siberian Husky. So that's who should get the three pills. For reference sake, in case anyone stumbled onto this blog while training to be a Veterinary Assistant:<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0Qun2BYMqdd-3T7dLepjpIo2S5OcE0zEU286OhPmWqQmkjSDcV7WrG7s9Fq6caH2wkBBm6AxRw2wK3iEp_w8xRAGEpaFC45QWdM1fz2awI6MTyHe4LSEZ9ag4ZcJXBrAy7ZQQgQWL4io/s1600/siberian+husky+with+horse.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0Qun2BYMqdd-3T7dLepjpIo2S5OcE0zEU286OhPmWqQmkjSDcV7WrG7s9Fq6caH2wkBBm6AxRw2wK3iEp_w8xRAGEpaFC45QWdM1fz2awI6MTyHe4LSEZ9ag4ZcJXBrAy7ZQQgQWL4io/s1600/siberian+husky+with+horse.jpg" height="400" title="Picture stolen from internet, because this is Nepal and we do that kind of thing here." width="253" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Siberian Husky.<br />I mean the one at the bottom<br />of the pic, with the fur and all.</i></td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgi81FcwXP-Q6dIUp0cFjjfdv4boqJxNU9P_LLMP40FMUJm0bfKDHpuevaEBogpJCtu6yeZwtuORh8Q_3WtNuOx1Sw85K32rD7mchUYORgzj8CaJu4R72Y3STej7ycLvx3ZHPioKEq4JjY/s1600/P1010020.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgi81FcwXP-Q6dIUp0cFjjfdv4boqJxNU9P_LLMP40FMUJm0bfKDHpuevaEBogpJCtu6yeZwtuORh8Q_3WtNuOx1Sw85K32rD7mchUYORgzj8CaJu4R72Y3STej7ycLvx3ZHPioKEq4JjY/s1600/P1010020.JPG" height="300" title="Sandy, thinking about belly rubs. Next she'll think about food, and then about walks. I do not think she has ever devoted any brain space to thinking about roundworms." width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Sandy. Not a Siberian Husky.</i></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUpr74do4DDBEfplvc8XD61s3y4LeJ3sSSG2nDpq4y3wsxmdtFLqt2SxneHNRMRXfx76sWLjj6SztL4RlVF7brk94m0Gdahi5UuLJMzWmo_ZJ1g0l_NQ7noXMEPWgPIb07mcFQ3DnWklo/s1600/P1010036.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUpr74do4DDBEfplvc8XD61s3y4LeJ3sSSG2nDpq4y3wsxmdtFLqt2SxneHNRMRXfx76sWLjj6SztL4RlVF7brk94m0Gdahi5UuLJMzWmo_ZJ1g0l_NQ7noXMEPWgPIb07mcFQ3DnWklo/s1600/P1010036.JPG" height="300" title="On the bridge between Kupandole (Patan) and Kathmandu proper." width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>This is a cow. It is heavier than 25 Kg.<br />It goes "moo" and blocks traffic. That's how you know it's a cow.</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Sandy has now had her de-worming medicine (adjusted for her <i>actual </i>body weight), ably administered by The Teenager. Think he can get a summer job as a vet's assistant?<br />
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Monsoon Rose http://www.blogger.com/profile/00999328889578835210noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8324143663561756372.post-30809854472933313042014-04-25T17:11:00.000+05:452014-11-19T13:21:24.475+05:45Sorry About the Rooster<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnFMV35-9g-K36zBuv_6dlmY1h1F_KprPJ_AEeFWgWbLGsju-t8syj8saGeFkf-hQ77UwHT-FOwkdHGm7rpaDLwgUoxA7UmxL8P4dH1j-3rJ8JVecq-IJFzkLD6-BEdRaj_WWLIpqkICM/s1600/roosterKTM.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnFMV35-9g-K36zBuv_6dlmY1h1F_KprPJ_AEeFWgWbLGsju-t8syj8saGeFkf-hQ77UwHT-FOwkdHGm7rpaDLwgUoxA7UmxL8P4dH1j-3rJ8JVecq-IJFzkLD6-BEdRaj_WWLIpqkICM/s1600/roosterKTM.JPG" height="396" title="OK, I grabbed this photo of your basic Kathmandu rooster off the internet. I had to. You'll see why. " width="640" /></a></div>
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Dear Person Whose Rooster Was Tied Up by Tibetan Camp Road,<br />
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I didn't do it. Neither did my dog. It was the <i>other </i>dog, the one the Teenager calls Pooh because he is a big bear-ish dog of little brain. Also there's another reason, which is why our dog, Sandy, is often annoyed at him. I'll get to that later. Along with a glimpse of human kindness. But first, Pooh.<br />
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A few months ago Pooh was a pathetic skeleton of a homeless puppy near the veggie bazaar. Thin flea-ridden coat, barely enough fur to cover his tail. A neighbor felt sorry for him and gave him a cookie, at which he perked up and followed her home and sat by her gate being skinny and hopeful. So she put out some meat, and there he sits to this day. Fatter and happier.<br />
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He's clearly part Tibetan Mastiff, or Bhote Kukur,<i> </i>which is kind of rude in Nepali (since <i>bhote </i>is a slang term for Tibetan-origin people like Sherpas or Tamang, so it's like calling a Japanese Spitz a "Jap Dog"), but that's what they're called and this blog just reports the facts. People come from the hills with armfuls of fuzzy black puppies and try to sell them on the street for a lot of money,<i> </i>but I've seen Tibetan Mastiffs in Mustang and the street-sale pups are to them<i> </i>what Tyrion Lannister is to The Hound. The ones that don't sell are often abandoned.<br />
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Pooh is now a shaggy tank of dirt and hopefulness, and he's still a puppy although he's already bigger than most other dogs in the 'hood, what with being a sort-of Bhote Kukur.<i> </i>He's moving slowly from being a Street Dog to being a Whoops dog, since he now sleeps in the neighbor's compound at night and she doesn't kick him out until dawn. She's even given him another name, Panther, although I still prefer Pooh.<br />
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So let me explain the categories of Nepali dogs and how they come into people's lives. If you're in Kathmandu, it helps to appreciate them, because there are a lot of them and they bark all night and you may end up with one.<br />
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1) A <b>Haute Dog.</b> In other words, a "breed dog," which means it's fashionable and pricey and had its brain bred out of it. At least that's the case with our landlord's German Shepherd, who was so dumb she ate her own puppy. Although she does know how to ride on a scooter, so I guess she's not always dumb. Just a fun-lovin' single gal who intends to stay that way. These days the status-conscious Nepali wants a "breed dog," so as long as you don't look too close at the pedigree and don't mind getting a Jerry Springer Production of a dog that is it's own cousin, you can have a sort-of German Shepherd (big and chained), Japanese Spitz (white, fluffy and yappy), Dachsund (long, thin and yappy) or of course a Tibetan Mastif (bearish and chained)<i>.</i> There is a <a href="http://bill-purkayastha.blogspot.com/2012/07/the-jarmaan-shefaard.html"><span style="color: red;">hysterically funny blog post</span></a> from a Bengali guy that shows that Nepalis aren't the only ones who think a "breed dog" is today's haute urban accessory. But some folks didn't get the status memo, and they end up with ...<br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1PV33qShZjVwyD1h5lbOb6MCJEXsjnQxEZW-MXgIETXUS9bkDD7uKGB1jWC7bpyA_eW8BOIkdixzIK1Jb7LXFIQOqWuXGaddPJf3XfP9qDmyF344-0IuGJ9Hcz79DaMBtXm9X8M4RW6U/s1600/P4010130.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1PV33qShZjVwyD1h5lbOb6MCJEXsjnQxEZW-MXgIETXUS9bkDD7uKGB1jWC7bpyA_eW8BOIkdixzIK1Jb7LXFIQOqWuXGaddPJf3XfP9qDmyF344-0IuGJ9Hcz79DaMBtXm9X8M4RW6U/s1600/P4010130.JPG" height="295" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Sandy, the Reformed Street Dog,<br />is now under the impression that<br />she craves organic lettuce.</i></td></tr>
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2) <b>A "Can We Keep It?" Dog. </b>That's a street dog that followed your kid home, or was found in a trash heap covered with fleas, or otherwise started life as one of Kathmandu's 35,000 street dogs. Our dog Sandy is a Can We Keep It dog. You can also acquire a dog after the neighbor's dog had puppies. But you will never have to pay placement fees or get home visits from a dog adoption agency to determine if you are the right match for a dog. It'll just appear, usually with your cookie in its mouth.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjv0G33wiGHXoZtxSU_MuYOv1tTDf7yMxPcWOjD4bIlDeKker956sSAmT9ro8dYRD-amu-q1wIrpx_VExF60IGRwex_iy5hdMBeo9BxU0rsV23DeiVmvHzZ07BUxy7uGLT1rHY-CNSXtXM/s1600/P3260321.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjv0G33wiGHXoZtxSU_MuYOv1tTDf7yMxPcWOjD4bIlDeKker956sSAmT9ro8dYRD-amu-q1wIrpx_VExF60IGRwex_iy5hdMBeo9BxU0rsV23DeiVmvHzZ07BUxy7uGLT1rHY-CNSXtXM/s1600/P3260321.JPG" height="640" width="360" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Khoire, a Whoops Dog<br />shedding her winter coat.</i></td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNVKFZGyKk820I3e3sd-m0Vzt5lCkFwdeRmqBY2iTaIDz-5uMiMWJ4Obiru1fSG-bumR_c6D58ao_oNlEPdrwCFRVFkeccp_gCSYk6srrrsoraKmFtFS3hfl8-gh80qiG3Dv2pDMLFi2g/s1600/PC020035.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><br /></a>
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3)<b> A Whoops-It-Lives-In-Our-Compound Dog </b>is a street dog that decides it likes your house. First it'll hang around outside your gate, and then it'll jump your high brick wall because they're all Superdogs, and one day you realize it's been in your yard for a year. There's a dog like that in our yard. Apparently the landlord even took her away in a car once and dropped her off somewhere, but she came back and now she has won. The landlady feeds her and the landlady's son built her a den of spare bricks with a little tin roof and we got her fixed and give her belly rubs. Her name is Khoire, which depending on pronunciation is either Brownie or Mangy, and she's Sandy's BFF.<br />
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4) A <b>Community Dog </b>is a street dog that gets fed by people because they're there. They hang out at butcher shops to increase the odds. Most dogs you see on the street -- which is a <i>lot </i>of them -- have achieved the status of community dogs. They're dirty and often pelted with rocks and may be limping from a fight or an encounter with a car, but they're free, and kind souls will generally toss them scraps of meat and the occasional cookie to supplement their diet of garbage pickings. Life may be short, nasty and brutish, but at least they're not chained. (Many of the owned dogs have it worse. They're on chains or in cages all day. That should be another category -- Jail Dogs.)<br />
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5) A pure<b> Street Dog </b>is just waiting to find a friendly butcher shop that isn't guarded by other dogs.<br />
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Anyway, back to Pooh Bear and the rooster.<br />
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Pooh looooves Sandy and wants to play, mainly with his nose to her butt. Which is the problem. He shows up whenever she goes outside because he really wants to be friends, and the first thing Sandy wants to do is pee, because she lives inside and knows that peeing on the floor is bad for her career, and he sticks his nose closer in appreciation, <i>Hey I like your pee, let's be friends!, </i>and although Sandy appreciates the canine bonding value of a good sniff, still, she's busy, and so she does what you would do if someone walked into the bathroom to make friends while you were on the toilet, which is to say <i>GRRRRRRRR, </i>but he's too much of a twit to listen, and it gets old. Today, I kid you not, he wiped his nose on her butt while she pooped. He is an actual brown noser.<br />
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Dogs and humans have our differences in regards to etiquette, but we seem to agree on the non-desirability of a wet nose as toilet paper. She gave the dog version of <i>what the HELL?!?, </i>and he backed off but kept wagging <i>friends friends hey let's be friends, </i>and dogs are more forgiving than humans in situations like these, so she shrugged it off and they walked along together, and he bumped into her and sniffed and she wagged wanly in return and all was fine. And then they saw the rooster.<br />
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He was tied up by one leg on a narrow dirt lane that opens onto Tibetan Camp Road. Sandy was leashed and couldn't go too close. Pooh, though, was as free as ... well, much freer than the bird, that's for sure. He circled around and wagged excitedly and lurched at the rooster with his big brown nose and from his perspective probably hoped to sniff something, <i>hey let's be friends, </i>and the rooster said <i><b>SQUAWK</b> <b><span style="font-size: x-small;">FLAP</span> <span style="font-size: large;">SQUAWK</span> squaaawk <span style="font-size: large;">SQUAAAAWK</span> FLAP FLAP <span style="font-size: large;">FLAP</span> <span style="font-size: x-large;">FLAP</span></b></i><br />
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and broke the string and flew off into the great unknown.</div>
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Pooh looked confused. Sandy and I send our condolences to whoever was hoping to eat that rooster for dinner. It probably didn't go far, although you might have to climb a tree to find it. <i>Lesson one:</i> Roosters can fly surprisingly well.<i> Lesson two: </i>Roosters only stay tied up because they have nothing better to do. <i>Lesson three:</i> It's really dumb to tie up roosters on the street in Nepal. There are dogs like Pooh here, who will put a new idea in the rooster's brain, which is to break that wimpy little string and go someplace dog-free, like the sky.<br />
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I'll finish today's ramble about Nepali dogs with a really neat moment I caught outside a butcher shop (a.k.a. Street Dog Gathering Zone) ...<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNVKFZGyKk820I3e3sd-m0Vzt5lCkFwdeRmqBY2iTaIDz-5uMiMWJ4Obiru1fSG-bumR_c6D58ao_oNlEPdrwCFRVFkeccp_gCSYk6srrrsoraKmFtFS3hfl8-gh80qiG3Dv2pDMLFi2g/s1600/PC020035.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNVKFZGyKk820I3e3sd-m0Vzt5lCkFwdeRmqBY2iTaIDz-5uMiMWJ4Obiru1fSG-bumR_c6D58ao_oNlEPdrwCFRVFkeccp_gCSYk6srrrsoraKmFtFS3hfl8-gh80qiG3Dv2pDMLFi2g/s1600/PC020035.JPG" height="480" title="Yes, that meat on the table was a pig. It can be your dinner if you want a chunk." width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>This boy is a street kid. He's probably one of many<br />who sleep on benches by the Jawalakhel micro stop.<br />He had a cookie, and he offered it to this street dog ... </i></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgng0HYhFHCW8pM0J5_bBaHmT5s5lf1wGLUTHWxLJly819C0vgoLAbfz3AuwdM0ATsphJX78uohBKklztahCMcCV6ppNYSl1LWSATDFUs6Vynzcv-5wm_WGP4KCrRggGqULti5f1_jVOXo/s1600/PC020038.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgng0HYhFHCW8pM0J5_bBaHmT5s5lf1wGLUTHWxLJly819C0vgoLAbfz3AuwdM0ATsphJX78uohBKklztahCMcCV6ppNYSl1LWSATDFUs6Vynzcv-5wm_WGP4KCrRggGqULti5f1_jVOXo/s1600/PC020038.JPG" height="480" title="Everyone should be as kind to dogs as this homeless street boy. As for the dog, he has his own way of knowing who is a good human ..." width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>... who then licked his face.<br />They played like this for a while.<br />Two homeless guys, living on the street,<br />giving each other a moment of love and kindness.</i></td></tr>
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Monsoon Rose http://www.blogger.com/profile/00999328889578835210noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8324143663561756372.post-73181755909471659382014-04-09T13:01:00.001+05:452014-05-30T11:44:32.736+05:45Yoga is a Spectator Sport<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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I've decided to rename my blog in honor of the Nepali New Year, and also because constantly fiddling with the name of my blog is a very good procrastination strategy, and I believe we should always practice what we're good at. Up until now, I've called it Too Lazy for Yoga, which is quite true, but I might like to show my blog occasionally to folks who aren't my family, and if they're Nepali they might think I don't <i>like </i>yoga, which is kind of like an American not liking baseball and also might get my visa revoked.<br />
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Whereas I love yoga. For other people. But I can't do it because I'm not that cool and also I fall over.<br />
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Still, if I had to pick between a Nepali sport like yoga and an American one like baseball, I'd pick yoga. Even to watch. Because at least I could follow what's going on. Plus it happens at my speed.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibxfyLWBxKIju76vDbepKOJNR6sdXdwGYO9SHUNoYAWFrrWx90FHWdLotOZJupxeGGZ1YdbHmVOiNBi3evDrbW-NJxcBHX-I1XY3H5K11aOB76KIBvC_0cS2dgPeTb8IURVgXvjKCPJnE/s1600/yoga+crazy+person.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibxfyLWBxKIju76vDbepKOJNR6sdXdwGYO9SHUNoYAWFrrWx90FHWdLotOZJupxeGGZ1YdbHmVOiNBi3evDrbW-NJxcBHX-I1XY3H5K11aOB76KIBvC_0cS2dgPeTb8IURVgXvjKCPJnE/s1600/yoga+crazy+person.jpg" height="268" title="This picture is from Pranamaya Yoga, where people really can do this stuff and more." width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>See what I mean? It's a spectator sport.</i></td></tr>
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Except that if I ever did yoga, I wouldn't do it Western-style, with all the mats and meditation music. I'd do it Nepali style, on the dirt in the village, because then when I fell over I'd just be an American who didn't know any better and everyone would smile cheerfully and feel good that I was trying, whereas if I did it Western-style with other Westerners I'd just be an uncoordinated dork and when I fell it would make a big thump and the mellow groove would be totally ruined.<br />
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My father-in-law has done yoga for years and is as limber as Gumby would be if Gumby could twist into a pretzel shape. He's still limber even though he has arthritis, which he got while he was visiting us in the US back when we lived there and we thought my in-laws might like to live there, too. We think the arthritis happened out of boredom. Nobody but us spoke Nepali in the 'hood, and so he had no one to philosophize with, which for an old <i>pandit </i>from the village is like being put into a sensory deprivation chamber.<br />
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So first he discovered a talent for art and filled an entire book with colored-pencil mandalas. And then he read a book over and over in Nepali that's basically like Creationism from a Nepali Hindu perspective, wherein it's proved that everything in the world begins in Nepal, is invented in Nepal, and proves the central importance of Nepal to everything, ever.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjazN9VBIQIq_i0b8P_R0Q84KHfYva0inHRlYmWhHUPqU6W5AM89wb6zfYOvCTTafslVb05Cfdx1iGKi108Bo_-TLg3FAMYPXheUUGuIftOAwxr5uX-nA698u7lyt85TbANV2OXMoQon7o/s1600/cool+whip+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjazN9VBIQIq_i0b8P_R0Q84KHfYva0inHRlYmWhHUPqU6W5AM89wb6zfYOvCTTafslVb05Cfdx1iGKi108Bo_-TLg3FAMYPXheUUGuIftOAwxr5uX-nA698u7lyt85TbANV2OXMoQon7o/s1600/cool+whip+1.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>The best thing about America,<br />according to my father -in-law</i></td></tr>
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He said he liked America. Particularly the whipped cream. And then he got arthritis.<br />
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So we took him to see the doctor, which he never does because he always cures himself with meditation and whatever his dreams tell him to do, which usually involves lemons, and he lay down on the checkup table, and she said that his arthritis could improve if he did leg lifts, and I translated this to him badly so he thought it meant <i>right then </i>and flipped his leg straight up in the air and almost kicked the doctor in her nose. I didn't think the leg of a 74-year-old man could go up that straight. Or that fast.<br />
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He went back to Nepal and when he got off the plane his leg felt better, and when he got to the village he was bounding around like a spring Gumby.<br />
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So yoga is good. And as long as I could do it without actually <i>moving, </i>like a meditation yoga where you just <i>think</i> about doing amazing things with your body, it would be the perfect exercise.<br />
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Anyway, here are some pictures of Patan, where I live, with students at Pranamaya, which is our local yoga studio, which had the cool idea a little while back of hosting a walking tour of Patan in which they let ordinary people like me from the community tag along. It was fun and I met some great people. I know they look normal, but they're <i>not, </i>because they can do camels and half-frogs and one-legged king pigeons and other gentle yet somehow unnatural-sounding poses without throwing their backs out. And if they ever get arthritis, they'll still be able to kick the doctor in the nose.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn9-a4c9wDGORx_ZXRh5IO9SyP5prdoOoVy2gD-jQtpeACpR0dJoz9Tq76J8fs9PhdOQETFpjWqobXa-wqNuoER9t_ptphSelNUB0L21txUMTQKMQ0-MXIWaeP1ES_qaxPqI_pV7XH1wQ/s1600/yoga+peering.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn9-a4c9wDGORx_ZXRh5IO9SyP5prdoOoVy2gD-jQtpeACpR0dJoz9Tq76J8fs9PhdOQETFpjWqobXa-wqNuoER9t_ptphSelNUB0L21txUMTQKMQ0-MXIWaeP1ES_qaxPqI_pV7XH1wQ/s1600/yoga+peering.jpg" height="265" title="Someplace in Patan that required everyone to look really closely. It's not a yoga move or they'd all be more coordinated." width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Pranamaya students on a stroll through Patan,<br />peering at things and taking pictures.<br />I'm the un-svelte one at upper left.</i></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQ_OGfk7XF3sp708dYnvHaAVSdXF63C_44iekIRxiR8E70d_EXcIWLWBt_idgw7x91KFRzvE6ndMo0rLIxTHarFkD0QpmbmVdmQf3nAzU5xfkXIH9YRnEoLndntLhbELUgIn5CoWbMCOg/s1600/yoga+patan.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQ_OGfk7XF3sp708dYnvHaAVSdXF63C_44iekIRxiR8E70d_EXcIWLWBt_idgw7x91KFRzvE6ndMo0rLIxTHarFkD0QpmbmVdmQf3nAzU5xfkXIH9YRnEoLndntLhbELUgIn5CoWbMCOg/s1600/yoga+patan.jpg" height="265" title="Pranamaya Yoga people are totally bragging. See how it is? They can even brag in body language." width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>What they usually do. It looks very calming, but if I try it, I am not calm at all<br />because I am either about to fall over or actually falling. <br />This would be particularly un-calming in public like this. <br />Although fortunately it's near the hospital, which I'd need for my concussion.</i></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6Ppa3upLS6YdeDDamm0HW6snzPvxVbYN11ANBAzXNdHglTRPOiRP82S2i5d2fNwLE4dybHk5cXIejC33kg8vZ5kHNhjxVvbJnX2xtJq7a1xf1LZaJ64x-ReHVFI9Ob-e5NWHWQBX3TuM/s1600/PB300136.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6Ppa3upLS6YdeDDamm0HW6snzPvxVbYN11ANBAzXNdHglTRPOiRP82S2i5d2fNwLE4dybHk5cXIejC33kg8vZ5kHNhjxVvbJnX2xtJq7a1xf1LZaJ64x-ReHVFI9Ob-e5NWHWQBX3TuM/s1600/PB300136.JPG" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Probably taking notes on poses from the guy in the foreground</i></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhc7-g09u9dRmgi6OEu-bsRStUQbqvQScZ9q7JXcg6Jzi9lt2leE-3rcDESrJDD6I7w-5QCJN4SIiHdmccIF-uTOqX77ZuzKyZ4V1VGLl3N7-gMzWg42-hnFP-3TSn1UDvVIdWiETnF4os/s1600/PB300107.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhc7-g09u9dRmgi6OEu-bsRStUQbqvQScZ9q7JXcg6Jzi9lt2leE-3rcDESrJDD6I7w-5QCJN4SIiHdmccIF-uTOqX77ZuzKyZ4V1VGLl3N7-gMzWg42-hnFP-3TSn1UDvVIdWiETnF4os/s1600/PB300107.JPG" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>A pose I can do</i></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWWPt_6OECabahZOjhh48li8xwNUeU3L3hOHy5KFWWyKTqAeWwsgtmxVKZlJR4vY3JQIfzGzdTTT62Pl9xDUWNHzCaceA3CnX8itFWhhk2-T58bWsfsg852ZhTEi68FbtS10n4mCEMsI4/s1600/yoga+food.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWWPt_6OECabahZOjhh48li8xwNUeU3L3hOHy5KFWWyKTqAeWwsgtmxVKZlJR4vY3JQIfzGzdTTT62Pl9xDUWNHzCaceA3CnX8itFWhhk2-T58bWsfsg852ZhTEi68FbtS10n4mCEMsI4/s1600/yoga+food.jpg" height="235" title="Everyone here is from Pranamaya Yoga, except for a few people like me who are cheating." width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>This is the part of yoga I like. </i></td></tr>
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Monsoon Rose http://www.blogger.com/profile/00999328889578835210noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8324143663561756372.post-31101405693076963032014-04-08T14:58:00.000+05:452014-04-10T10:07:20.531+05:45A Happy New Year Vampire Story to Welcome 2071<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I've been so behind in posting these days that I should call this Too Lazy To Blog. Which really would be a new high (or low) in laziness. But fortunately, a new year is coming, and so I can turn over a new leaf while I thank a vampire.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4zZiqc5QMzXx09RGIm3ILLiRPNlqfntnE7amXGPS2o3kCkJYY4bAJ1x9HjEXG6WK-C7cfjQ6kP01OYCse19me0QbTGi1CcKdNn3ICAt6AmOmrd_8KexipRPTNdHYNIn3Es_DzC2VR_hg/s1600/vampire+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4zZiqc5QMzXx09RGIm3ILLiRPNlqfntnE7amXGPS2o3kCkJYY4bAJ1x9HjEXG6WK-C7cfjQ6kP01OYCse19me0QbTGi1CcKdNn3ICAt6AmOmrd_8KexipRPTNdHYNIn3Es_DzC2VR_hg/s1600/vampire+1.jpg" height="260" title="Happy New Year! I've come to tell you a children's story!" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>This is a non-sparkly Hindi TV vampire. <br />And yes, this is related to New Year's. Which is this weekend,<br />in the same part of the world in which this cheery fellow is considered<br />to be a fun character for a children's show. Who needs Big Bird?</i></td></tr>
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OK, I know what you're thinking. "<i>I'll let the vampire part slide for a minute, because you've clearly lost it, but what do you mean, new year? You may be a bit slow on the uptake, girl, but it's been 2014 for a while now." </i>That's where you're wrong. Here in Nepal, we're almost done with the year 2070. This weekend, it will turn 2071. Here's proof in the form of a real Nepali New Year's card with a Nepali New Year's Unicorn (or maybe a New Year's My Little Pony) for those who don't find my New Year's Vampire sweet enough:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-JEDm8F279Hhu3-yRUXlY9dw6JTI4ycCLJZ4NkWN-aKFZ8cEPo1QKIc2FGFFDrllWPpjj5M9hHb1BzyifL6YTi-bhqgaZ3Ru0d72wjTtwPUhoFU-PstKVO8AENiIprFJwYN7n7mRh4FI/s1600/new+year+pony+2071.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-JEDm8F279Hhu3-yRUXlY9dw6JTI4ycCLJZ4NkWN-aKFZ8cEPo1QKIc2FGFFDrllWPpjj5M9hHb1BzyifL6YTi-bhqgaZ3Ru0d72wjTtwPUhoFU-PstKVO8AENiIprFJwYN7n7mRh4FI/s1600/new+year+pony+2071.jpg" height="320" title="My Little Punk Pony feels he was born to be a unicorn" width="256" /></a></div>
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Our calendar is called the B.S. calendar. It doesn't stand for what you might think. And it isn't one of those calendars that just get trotted out on special occasions, so that people can go to a Chinese restaurant and say Happy Year of the Rat without really leaving 2014. No, it's pretty much NEVER 2014 here. Or January or April. Today, for instance, is Chait 27, 2070, not April 8, and if you're going to a government office or planning a meeting you'd better remember it because no one else will be paying the least whit of attention to April 8 and you will be 56.7 years late.<br />
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Of course, our confusing calendar does mean that this guy ...<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq95z37XQeGtGlZEu5_cK2NsccUmhwpe-zgnWFL39x7U0ArqZarbS-7E9cvYKhYHN6E3S4a1jFgSdQ4TxoqvA-X05E68QmBzDIaZT9J6Som3nA77xtMs9QFK9c-6rsUzhi80xsrWJHqng/s1600/P1010331.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq95z37XQeGtGlZEu5_cK2NsccUmhwpe-zgnWFL39x7U0ArqZarbS-7E9cvYKhYHN6E3S4a1jFgSdQ4TxoqvA-X05E68QmBzDIaZT9J6Som3nA77xtMs9QFK9c-6rsUzhi80xsrWJHqng/s1600/P1010331.JPG" height="300" title="Do not underestimate this guy. He has fought off tigers. I kid you not. And if you're a ghost or a vampire, you are TOAST." width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>My father-in-law, dressed in his Junior Soprano outfit in Mustang, near Tibet.<br />He knows the appropriate words to ward off vampires,<br />and since I'll post more pictures of them it's good to have him around for safety.</i></td></tr>
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... was born the same year as this guy:</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSoY6CpFLTqd6vBxFYeta2-2Sildk8bRc7KMsfNHki0Ndu4LWXRM0M_zasl4bnQOSLScbbfxMivkiztyDEvQ-f-rbb8nmNv_NHC09HAO1cVWnJOolBKJp1yyHE22EZD8oUs_VY39FBBNs/s1600/086.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSoY6CpFLTqd6vBxFYeta2-2Sildk8bRc7KMsfNHki0Ndu4LWXRM0M_zasl4bnQOSLScbbfxMivkiztyDEvQ-f-rbb8nmNv_NHC09HAO1cVWnJOolBKJp1yyHE22EZD8oUs_VY39FBBNs/s1600/086.JPG" height="300" title="At an old fort in Dubai, which is warmer than Mustang by a long shot. And not friendly to vampires." width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Teenager who doesn't like sparkly vampires<br />checking to see if cannon is loaded </i></td></tr>
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So what is the special occasion that is marked by Year One in the B.S. calendar? Well, uh, people aren't sure. The B.S. stands for Bikram Sambat, or Bikram's Era, and was supposedly established by a ruler named Bikram a.k.a. Vikramaditya -- alert readers may notice the V, but that's close enough to B for us here in the land of random spelling -- who may have created the calendar to mark his victory over the Sakas. They turn out to have been nomads from Kazakhstan. I have no idea how an Indian king ended up in Kazakhstan, but maybe that's why he needed a new calendar, along with a new map.<br />
<br />
Anyway, some people see this as the same King Bikram who carried a vampire around. There's an old legend, dramatized in a classic children's series on Hindi TV, in which, <i>listen up children and gather around the TV for your bedtime story,</i> Bikram goes to a cremation ground where he meets an evil old sadhu who will give him a wonderful gift if he brings him a corpse. So Bikram finds the corpse and it turns out to be a vampire, <i>ha ha it's not dead after all, </i>and each day the vampire tells him a story that involves a riddle that Bikram has to answer correctly or die.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghDSuwMh507oLQ7HpLJAJo9l3o_Irw_MKmh7qW12aZw9zWcDmWNIXLm_HYwxTlHoSLBZhiPqyGuy9e1Z5WgyT330bAeHs9MZ7dj9dEc_TaaJCZ-1P8x5PfJCPxes5GAxXglWLboksqyeM/s1600/VikramandBetaal.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghDSuwMh507oLQ7HpLJAJo9l3o_Irw_MKmh7qW12aZw9zWcDmWNIXLm_HYwxTlHoSLBZhiPqyGuy9e1Z5WgyT330bAeHs9MZ7dj9dEc_TaaJCZ-1P8x5PfJCPxes5GAxXglWLboksqyeM/s1600/VikramandBetaal.jpg" height="400" title="Tell me a story or I will KILL you!" width="266" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Bikram with the vampire.<br />I think I'd want a new start, too.</i></td></tr>
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I'm picturing the production meeting. <i>A story a day, for 25 days! Children love stories!</i><br />
<i><br /></i>The first story involves a bride who tries to commit suicide after her husband dies. There is also a bandit attack and a beheading -- <i>great, that means pretty bridal costumes for the girls, action for the boys! --</i> and then a mistake in which the husband's head is put on the wrong body and reanimated, and in the end there's an interesting educational riddle for Bikram and the kids to solve about whether the bride's <i>real </i>husband is the body with the wrong head or the right head with the wrong body.<br />
<br />
I wonder if there are any action figures. They could have interchangeable heads.<br />
<br />
Although at least our South Asian vampires could beat the crap out of any sparkly <i>Twilight </i>vampires. And the kids who grew up with <i>Vikram Aur Betaal </i>can be counted on to be able to cope with absolutely anything that life may toss them.<i> </i>Which may be the point. <i>No electricity? No water? Third world politicians? No problem, I grew up with vampires at bedtime.</i><br />
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At any rate, everything in Nepal runs on the Bikram calendar: the governments, the schools, the fiscal year, the bus schedules, and apparently this blog as well since it's been so long between posts. I'm going to blame it on the whole B.S. thing.<br />
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So now, on the occasion of 2071, I think we should all have some drinks and thank a vampire. Because in the end, he teams up with Bikram to kill the evil sadhu (who my husband informs me isn't <i>really </i>a sadhu because they're never evil but a tantric, in case you've stumbled onto this blog while doing research for a term paper), and I guess the two live happily ever after, coming up with a new calendar or something. If you'd like, you can even download the Android app:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjowbgzC2FjIntuzUzA8GNxi9QyUK7vVcqg6Dd8YTKNLxgLYaOCAJJJAINt23Kr5s0ANdL8wY2_a6o9DwdgniybLiJBWZBrWdJnAJJl3pPqoQJ6vmKXVadj4K_qAPOzhFzJIo_FQcsVUEQ/s1600/vikram+android+app.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjowbgzC2FjIntuzUzA8GNxi9QyUK7vVcqg6Dd8YTKNLxgLYaOCAJJJAINt23Kr5s0ANdL8wY2_a6o9DwdgniybLiJBWZBrWdJnAJJl3pPqoQJ6vmKXVadj4K_qAPOzhFzJIo_FQcsVUEQ/s1600/vikram+android+app.png" title="Kind of a cross between Scooby Doo and the Walking Dead" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Happy New Year 2071, kids!</span></div>
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Monsoon Rose http://www.blogger.com/profile/00999328889578835210noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8324143663561756372.post-75701324137061025502014-02-15T23:59:00.000+05:452014-02-17T09:31:12.625+05:45Small is Beautiful: The Two-Hour Sari Blouse<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Everything was done in my neighborhood,</i><br />
<i>at one of Kathmandu's thousands of woman-owned small local businesses.<br />By "everything" I even mean the hand-stitched goldwork embroidery.<br />(No, it's not mine. I wish.)</i></td></tr>
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Here are two of the reasons I love living where I live.<br />
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a) I get to say things like "I need a sari blouse" and really <i>mean</i> it.<br />
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b) If this notion just crosses my mind a few hours before the blouse is needed, I can get one made from scratch -- all within two hours, and in my own neighborhood.<br />
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Okay, I know I should be saying that I love where I live because of the rich multicultural tapestry, the opportunity to make a difference for the poor and oppressed, and the exciting entrepreneurial spirit that poses a feisty challenge to the globalized status quo. All of which is true. But it's also weirdly cool to wake up and realize, "Ohmigod it's cold, and I'm going to a wedding reception tonight, and so of course I'll wear a sari, but I don't have a long-sleeved sari blouse! Oh no, whatever shall I do?!?"<br />
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The Western equivalent of "I need a sari blouse" might be "I need a little black dress." But, see, little black dresses are boring. They're the definition of "meh." Coco Chanel killed fashion in the West. Well, Coco Chanel plus the fact that truly cool things like beads and embroidery cost a lot of money, plus we're really a bunch of Puritans inside and so it was such a relief to the Western mind when it turned out that color and ornamentation weren't okay anymore.<br />
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Watch out. This may turn into a fashion blog.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicGp3S9H6R-84_OqH8Olzl4BKCnmNOnH-Zf_GOaNMffpymivPtsRq6lGJzczAfFnyyN39PuxPfzpsn4KXFlFeMjbuoXPOEMEGP-4ik94mfNtqNvj5TgRLz8TpmOKcoCvACHctSKkbIaf0/s1600/P2150086.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicGp3S9H6R-84_OqH8Olzl4BKCnmNOnH-Zf_GOaNMffpymivPtsRq6lGJzczAfFnyyN39PuxPfzpsn4KXFlFeMjbuoXPOEMEGP-4ik94mfNtqNvj5TgRLz8TpmOKcoCvACHctSKkbIaf0/s1600/P2150086.JPG" height="220" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>What I suddenly realized I'd end up wearing<br />inside at night, with no heat. Brrrrr.</i></td></tr>
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Anyway, sari blouses. They're usually short-sleeved, which is dandy in balmy India, but Nepal is higher and colder. You can cope with this at a fancy winter party by either wearing a sweater with your sari (practical but frumpy, and I'm frumpy enough without help) or a shawl (in which case what's the point of the nice pleating you just spent half an hour trying to get right?). Or you can have a long-sleeved sari blouse. Which was the only option that would also allow me to don thermal underwear and smile at the bride without chattering teeth. So it was a no-brainer, except that, speaking of no brains, I only realized this a few hours before the party and had no long-sleeved blouse.<br />
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Oh, I could get away with a salwar kameez. Heck, I'm a Westerner, so I could get away with jeans and a down jacket; yeah, I'm married to a Nepali and get brownie points for getting the culture "right," but they'd cut me slack. Still, what fun is that?<br />
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So off I went off to see which of the tailors and seamstresses in the 'hood could make a purple velvet blouse in a few hours. Notice that I said <i>which </i>of them, because there are many tailors and seamstresses within a 10-minute walk. That is because Kathmandu is fantastic. Oh, it's chaotic and congested, but it's got real neighborhoods, and they're built (or rather, grow organically) to make it easy to shop on foot for pretty much everything. Of course, this is because most people don't have cars, which has its obvious negative side, but it's great for walkability and small business. This is still a town for people, and not for the chain stores, strip malls, and highways that kill small business and turn communities into sterile wastelands that only corporations and Hal the 2001 Computer could love.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>If you see a mannequin, you know it'll cost.</i></td></tr>
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OK, end of rant. Within a few minutes, by foot, I had checked five hole-in-the-wall shops and found two people who could make a blouse within four hours. But that was still too slow, since a Nepali "four hours" means "five or six hours if the tailor shows up."<br />
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Finally, I found a boutique -- which means "has glass windows, mannequins and charges more" -- that had purple velvet in stock and could make a blouse within <i>two</i> hours, starting now. It's one of thousands of woman-owned tailoring and clothing shops that provide people with a living (many of them other women who can work on fairly flexible schedules) while also, as it happens, keeping much of the money in Nepal and preserving a South Asian fashion culture that is a rich alternative to mass-produced global dullness. I'm a big believer in "small is beautiful," and in the case of small shops and boutiques, it's quite <i>literally </i>beautiful.<br />
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The six people who make a living here include this guy, the goldwork embroidery master. It was incredible to watch him work. His name is Lal Mohammed, and he is originally from Janakpur but learned his trade 20 years ago in Calcutta. The gold-colored metal thread seems to spill from his hands like magic.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>The velvet for the blouse is stretched on a frame</i></td></tr>
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He told me that a lot of embroiderers go to Saudi Arabia and other Gulf states for work, because people there can afford elaborate goldwork clothes. But he doesn't feel it's safe for workers, and isn't convinced that the pay would be worth it. His salary isn't high -- it's on par with a lower-rank police officer or teacher, all of whom struggle to make ends meet -- but in fact that's close to what many remittance workers end up earning per month, and they also end up in debt to manpower agencies and away from their families for years while living in virtual slavery. So instead, he's doing his work in the back of a shop in my neighborhood.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjE5_P0gQ3xkHJYaywwQ5GsxaGq2JA5Pq-95oQIHIdZJJ70k04CGpQdG-Si1-5tFlZLUCK87tLpha1_RAmWnuehY4HxNwJ62tzOG0MmRyni94r7bFUQcwd10OUUQ4ASoqOz12EEsO0lRoI/s1600/P2140113-001.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjE5_P0gQ3xkHJYaywwQ5GsxaGq2JA5Pq-95oQIHIdZJJ70k04CGpQdG-Si1-5tFlZLUCK87tLpha1_RAmWnuehY4HxNwJ62tzOG0MmRyni94r7bFUQcwd10OUUQ4ASoqOz12EEsO0lRoI/s1600/P2140113-001.JPG" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>It takes a week to make a blouse like this.</i><br />
<i>Goldwork involves a needle-like tool that seem to catch the fabric,</i><br />
<i>but I'll be darned if I could figure it out by watching.</i><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaEVT4LyijnyPNA6_KAGpSVpkwZJd-LjAalHNhe8L3yQbYjyxLM8HM4etDcsW0wj6Xqv5X6Rc5IeVZpuVQK5dZJZQQaiOiuLTqEpxHBVf-4UjPi1qj8yryzlNoEX_rxrDf-sn-Y72-G2g/s1600/P2140117-002.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaEVT4LyijnyPNA6_KAGpSVpkwZJd-LjAalHNhe8L3yQbYjyxLM8HM4etDcsW0wj6Xqv5X6Rc5IeVZpuVQK5dZJZQQaiOiuLTqEpxHBVf-4UjPi1qj8yryzlNoEX_rxrDf-sn-Y72-G2g/s1600/P2140117-002.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>These will become the neck trim.</i><br />
<i>The term "goldwork" doesn't necessarily involve real gold,</i><br />
<i>but metal threads that look like gold or silver.</i></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiN9nPaM8La_Vo63GNVao1k-JuvA5KNXTIiBG_Pdz1OlkcXH4u1WYkBq8TLFXMWFELggq9qHHCnuU2jL6u2djyxAYLwBB7XuDr1tSZhPNa3bXK3Pjpkurx90xwScC4nv9N7KDKsJA7WHE/s1600/P2140129-001.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiN9nPaM8La_Vo63GNVao1k-JuvA5KNXTIiBG_Pdz1OlkcXH4u1WYkBq8TLFXMWFELggq9qHHCnuU2jL6u2djyxAYLwBB7XuDr1tSZhPNa3bXK3Pjpkurx90xwScC4nv9N7KDKsJA7WHE/s1600/P2140129-001.JPG" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Lal Mohammed's bead work, or a little black dress?<br />Oh puhleez. It's not even a contest.</i></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7vFT1DBcLj0CZV3QDu1OZ1n18IzweN1hP6jtg7RK6fYJjfTMF_gN1fYVTiMDylAZfIv7Qs18RMg0WV0Lrrxp4PZWRKhNInfucf-HWubT1EWqAth-RJ7wvJ3kNVJXC02eNX-OUmZboT08/s1600/P2140090-002.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7vFT1DBcLj0CZV3QDu1OZ1n18IzweN1hP6jtg7RK6fYJjfTMF_gN1fYVTiMDylAZfIv7Qs18RMg0WV0Lrrxp4PZWRKhNInfucf-HWubT1EWqAth-RJ7wvJ3kNVJXC02eNX-OUmZboT08/s1600/P2140090-002.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Rojina Shakya and Sita Shrestha are two of many women entrepreneurs<br />who run their own local clothing shop, in this case featuring their own designs<br />Theirs is called Aava and you can find it at Dumkul, <br />around the corner from the Jawalakhel Salesway.</i></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKWOPGQAZNx-FvKASQwsTFNAGyXuhGQtMy3xCZyP__VSt97Xz5lPM5Ahcde9eHPZylUXeeT3RfBr7V0jIEEt8XeMuRp9EJ7jnINcenctX1Qie6siRQ234k802JrAbMLuLALUhSCLvGSLo/s1600/P2140122-001.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKWOPGQAZNx-FvKASQwsTFNAGyXuhGQtMy3xCZyP__VSt97Xz5lPM5Ahcde9eHPZylUXeeT3RfBr7V0jIEEt8XeMuRp9EJ7jnINcenctX1Qie6siRQ234k802JrAbMLuLALUhSCLvGSLo/s1600/P2140122-001.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Along with the owners, who also do some of the stitching,<br />and Lal Mohammed, the shop employs a master tailor and two seamstresses --</i><br />
<i>who, of course, work on pedal-run sewing machines. </i><br />
<i>If you had an electric sewing machine </i><i>in power-starved Kathmandu, </i><br />
<i>you'd be working in two-hour stretches at midnight. That or broke.</i></td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheVwc-Nzfo1jttEmsqo7IvcUCeprF4idk8OQjcDAQeJaFRBXbxbYMaat7q457XV4kEZ-r2sKqnTObntoinNP_5L56NRAVz_zccUoKQuuf3JceGhmCzzpcCiUUsTI6vgjQqa1JUWzst3qc/s1600/P2140129-001.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><br /></a>
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Well, I had neither the time nor the budget for one of Lal Mohammed's masterpieces, but in two hours, I had a warm, well-lined blouse in purple velvet with silver trim. With my sari and high-performance thermal underwear <i>a la </i>snow camping, I was all set for a wedding party in the Himalayan winter. </div>
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<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8_ewg7k2X8XNAw44qrI3vWOBBME5_8GbeSaDJpifldHs5G1p-Kn57cyYWQlTtW4Ihb_-4oVc4OZ1BIGDCr0XIbnEQuj8MDT36x3U8umMg35Dnw60a7qiOk5qs4Kdv0sJIohL_8iBUTq8/s1600/P2140160-001.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8_ewg7k2X8XNAw44qrI3vWOBBME5_8GbeSaDJpifldHs5G1p-Kn57cyYWQlTtW4Ihb_-4oVc4OZ1BIGDCr0XIbnEQuj8MDT36x3U8umMg35Dnw60a7qiOk5qs4Kdv0sJIohL_8iBUTq8/s1600/P2140160-001.JPG" height="308" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption"><i>I'll put up a better pic if I find one,<br />but for now, here's a mirror selfie with purple two-hour sari blouse.<br />I've also got two layers of thermal underwear on.<br />Otherwise I'd look svelte, of course.</i></td></tr>
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Monsoon Rose http://www.blogger.com/profile/00999328889578835210noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8324143663561756372.post-73817741579447069732014-01-17T16:34:00.000+05:452014-01-24T09:52:07.118+05:45Hollywood Comes to Kathmandu and I Get a Scene. (With Josh Brolin. Not the Chickens.)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
You know those fuzzy pictures that claim to show the Loch Ness monster? This one is clearer. So you can have no doubt that it's really me, with Josh Brolin,<i> </i>on the set of <i>Everest, </i>the movie version of Jon Krakauer's best-selling book on the 1996 Everest disaster, "Into Thin Air." It's filming here in Nepal until they move to the Alps and Iceland so they can breathe while filming. The real Everest can be a little unfriendly, oxygen-wise. (So can Kathmandu, actually. But it makes up for it in colorfulness. Which the movie crew signifies with chickens. I'll get to that later.)<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg30FvKeXcIAe30s-0N_vjLlVl8SfHiIHZWZI8uKyzJN3DB6OalLQ8EbQ2gVVbjOdCXqsu64x51W37KvgT0bOloPOb0AVFNGu4Jm2mLcAXCkn2QoBDOJiRfSEDiTOaWmgq3ioCI-yn_1qU/s1600/P1140164.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg30FvKeXcIAe30s-0N_vjLlVl8SfHiIHZWZI8uKyzJN3DB6OalLQ8EbQ2gVVbjOdCXqsu64x51W37KvgT0bOloPOb0AVFNGu4Jm2mLcAXCkn2QoBDOJiRfSEDiTOaWmgq3ioCI-yn_1qU/s1600/P1140164.JPG" height="240" title="Josh Brolin plays Beck Weathers. I play someone who almost bangs into him." width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Me and my fuzzy co-star Josh.<br />Also, I think that's Bigfoot walking behind me, <br />and the shining white light comes from a UFO.<br />Think this'll go viral now?</i></td></tr>
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I got to play a key role with Josh Brolin -- at least I consider it a key role, though a subtle one (hey, there are no small roles, just small actors) -- in a crucial scene<i> </i>that establishes his character as a decisive mountain-climbing dude who is also bluff and pushy and sure to clash with others on the slope. (You can tell a lot by the way a man picks up a backpack.) Josh Brolin is playing Beck Weathers, and if you live in Nepal and haven't read "Into Thin Air" and thus don't know who Beck Weathers is, you're in danger of having your visa revoked.<br />
<br />
I play Western Woman in Kathmandu Airport Who Almost Bangs into Beck Weathers Repeatedly.<br />
<br />
It wasn't really in the script. My official part was Extra Who Walks With Other Extras Behind Beck Weathers aka Josh Brolin As He Picks Up His Backpack Ruggedly. But spontaneity and improvisation are such an important part of the creative process. Plus it was a really narrow area. And given the choice of banging into Josh Brolin or another extra, I picked Josh Brolin.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIyVlD0XU8XE6MSUxdHrriN_eJaZtWqz2tYS1DRYTnxTZbfmBgc0zYUZWKp-6gyNQaEIODVMtd72MjW0NrOI0mcVFtfU1LJ0tR_nnazQWjPvk25jYWHq0INsPmNw5PMtCu1fzIyLZ4xUQ/s1600/P1140146.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIyVlD0XU8XE6MSUxdHrriN_eJaZtWqz2tYS1DRYTnxTZbfmBgc0zYUZWKp-6gyNQaEIODVMtd72MjW0NrOI0mcVFtfU1LJ0tR_nnazQWjPvk25jYWHq0INsPmNw5PMtCu1fzIyLZ4xUQ/s1600/P1140146.JPG" height="320" title="On the set of Everest at the Kathmandu airport. Geez, even the cameramen are buff." width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>"The cameraman will come walking backward, with a very expensive camera," <br />said the Second Second Assistant Director to us extras.<br />"Do not bang into him and his very expensive camera."<br />Nothing was mentioned about not banging into the very expensive movie star.</i></td></tr>
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In case your memory is fuzzy in regards to "Into Thin Air," Beck Weathers was the cocky Texas doctor (and avid Republican: note his Dole t-shirt and expect lots of good Hollywood-style arrogance and conflict) who was climbing Everest when a blizzard struck and he was blinded, lost, stranded, frozen into a human icicle and left for dead twice until he staggered through the blizzard and became the subject of the highest helicopter evacuation in history. He is, quite possibly, the toughest man on earth.<br />
<br />
As for Brolin, he was in <i>No Country for Old Men, True Grit, Men in Black 3, </i>and a bunch of snapshots and iPhone shots on the set of <i>Everest.</i><br />
<br />
Anyway, a crew from Pinewood Studios in London came here to start production on the film, which also stars Jake Gyllenhaal as groovy wild-man climbing guide Scott Fischer and Jason Clark as level-headed guide Rob Hall -- both of whom die on Everest along with six others (which hopefully doesn't need a spoiler alert because you already knew that) -- and they needed some Westerners to be extras in it.<br />
<br />
I'm not under 18 and don't have two heads and hence I made the cut. Plus, being a historic costume geek of the first order, I helpfully arrived with my own costume, a skirt that I really <i>did </i>wear in Nepal in 1996, a point which I made to the Costume Director, who of course approved. Or anyway he looked me up and down for three seconds and then said "old hippie" with a very British sniff, but I guess that was a note of approval, because it saved me from wearing a skinny pink shirt from the wardrobe rack via eBay like the extra next to me.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheOkTeZDs0UPkMvhoBF8OzktoXWwRMRLgwqMzUvFIi4B-ExZ5TP2Q3pUMPoRkLOTIq_VRpEQdZpPzQZO4y-R0a4IOIpJK5T4OrOh6GGMAq6W7kBvU-yPAYqjeMn5lgJ4YpjWEOhfOAAj0/s1600/P1130110.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheOkTeZDs0UPkMvhoBF8OzktoXWwRMRLgwqMzUvFIi4B-ExZ5TP2Q3pUMPoRkLOTIq_VRpEQdZpPzQZO4y-R0a4IOIpJK5T4OrOh6GGMAq6W7kBvU-yPAYqjeMn5lgJ4YpjWEOhfOAAj0/s1600/P1130110.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>I finally get to do costumes for a movie! <br />Here's my historically accurate worn-in-Nepal-in-the-'90s skirt,<br />with appropriate trekking top. I'd have worn my Grateful Dead socks,<br />too, but they are in fact post-'90s and that would have been a terrible lapse.<br />This is the bus and props used for the movie. You saw it here first.</i></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPxaXebh7A6GAdAHGxfSQP5h_gPg7roHLxmunCx0h5Oeva7YBmPA4BLu7zYxDIl3DHZEobU1pX4g7t51B1M_PWxY_xy6b2HrTKNih3uRGcMEAB2XZEo_Es1NCw81cXpRiMiHEUOuVAAuI/s1600/P1140118.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPxaXebh7A6GAdAHGxfSQP5h_gPg7roHLxmunCx0h5Oeva7YBmPA4BLu7zYxDIl3DHZEobU1pX4g7t51B1M_PWxY_xy6b2HrTKNih3uRGcMEAB2XZEo_Es1NCw81cXpRiMiHEUOuVAAuI/s1600/P1140118.JPG" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Watch out. The costume director got pink stuff</i><br />
<i>on eBay, and he can make you wear it.</i></td></tr>
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<br />
So now, for the benefit of those who have always wondered about life in the glamorous lane, I'll explain ...<br />
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<h4 style="text-align: center;">
The Extra Selection Process: Nepal Version</h4>
<div>
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1) Either get an email on the expat listserv or get tapped on the back by the Second Second Assistant Director who cruised the tourist area looking for photogenic types; as you can imagine, I got the notice by email.<br />
<br />
2) Go to the five-star hotel where the film folks are staying, the posh Hyatt Bouddha (which isn't as posh as Dwarika's but has better parking, which you need if you're making a movie that involves buses with chickens). Then stand around in a line with other extras like you're up for auction while the makeup crew scrutinizes your face and hair, followed by the costume "triage woman," who pulls out of the line the obviously non-'96 folks so they can get stuffed into pink t-shirts and other eBay finds. She also apologizes repeatedly for how cold you are, which you are <i>not</i> if you live here, because you knew it would be inside and hence dressed in many layers of thermals in Kathmandu Pillsbury Dough Boy Fashion, whereas all the Hollywood folks were operating under the illusion that "inside at a five-star hotel" meant "warm" and suffered the consequences.<br />
<br />
3) Keep standing in line (perhaps as a test of your capacity to endure film-set boredom) until the arrival of the costume director, who looks at everyone like Mr. Blackwell picking the Hollywood Worst Dressed List and has many ways of pronouncing "no" -- <i>nooOOoo, nnnnnO, <b>NO</b> --</i> all of which communicate utter disdain. But I passed muster because I guess he could use an "old hippie." And besides, I'm sure he could tell that, in my heart of hearts, I would love to be a movie costume director (although I clearly need to work on my pronunciation of the world "no" and also on my tolerance for pink.)<br />
<br />
Filming commenced the next day on a bus and then at Kathmandu's domestic airport, which was standing in for the international airport circa 1996. Mr. Brolin's job, in the scene in which I appear if I'm not cut, involves ...<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
walking up to a cart full of trekking gear and swinging his backpack over his back. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
Which he did very decisively, I must add. Over and over. From many angles. He made the bag <i>look heavy. </i>Which it wasn't, because they were all empty. He then walked forward with his pretend-heavy backpack as I walked behind him, along with other extras who had been instructed to look "confused" (since we were looking for our bags), and it was a narrow area and I did "confusion" so well that I kept brushing into Brolin, which wasn't planned, but I would argue that banging into another foreigner is an important element of character development and symbolizes The Likelihood of Future Conflict, along with the Dole t-shirt, and hence should not be cut under any circumstances.<br />
<br />
There were several scenes filmed at the airport, mainly involving bags and walking. In my spare time, of which I had a great deal, I took bad pictures of ...<br />
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<h4 style="text-align: center;">
<b>Location, Location</b></h4>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9CsF6HacmDFvaTx1RUJKxbwnb4UEMLyFBwzQmOqePJLzsdAd2Xl3T_DAWHuUw0frEbytqbrf63GNwb7QYOKcL-S3qNZUnQWqaQnKdSgNFpviYx79KpqB8mAj7Rivpz49EjvDyHPwwyfE/s1600/P1140135.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9CsF6HacmDFvaTx1RUJKxbwnb4UEMLyFBwzQmOqePJLzsdAd2Xl3T_DAWHuUw0frEbytqbrf63GNwb7QYOKcL-S3qNZUnQWqaQnKdSgNFpviYx79KpqB8mAj7Rivpz49EjvDyHPwwyfE/s1600/P1140135.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>The setting of my important scene,<br />with baggage props and cardboard box props</i><br />
<i>and people wondering onto the set, </i><i>which actually was a working airport. </i><br />
<i>So they'd film a bit, and then Nepalis would wander in </i><i>and talk on their cell phones </i><br />
<i>and line up for flights, </i><i>and then they'd film again when it cleared up.</i></td></tr>
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<h4 style="text-align: center;">
<b><br /></b></h4>
<h4 style="text-align: center;">
<b>Details. (Someone Was Paid to Do This.)</b></h4>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrggnYjLDrlYX8CpYO91HR7V81lNjJZ8SOvaa6uep0pfj98IEnaD9ROlzAmkB1qluJ7IMVmfS9JfeE0IdOpd0TCZ63-CwvB9ZA1s7rW0GKA_z_WuhisjB8dRaQhCNf36c1jk9OE9W_bbw/s1600/P1140127.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrggnYjLDrlYX8CpYO91HR7V81lNjJZ8SOvaa6uep0pfj98IEnaD9ROlzAmkB1qluJ7IMVmfS9JfeE0IdOpd0TCZ63-CwvB9ZA1s7rW0GKA_z_WuhisjB8dRaQhCNf36c1jk9OE9W_bbw/s1600/P1140127.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Is this cool or what? There's SO MUCH DETAIL<br />that they actually have little tags on the luggage with the character names. </i><br />
<i>This character is an older, experienced climber </i><br />
<i>who sensibly decided he can't make it </i><i>and steps aside, and hence survives.</i><br />
<i><br /></i></td></tr>
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<h4 style="text-align: center;">
<b>Chickens, to Signify Nepal's Third Worldiness</b></h4>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-4tf7r7KI722OPL1284H9AF5ID1ZokAsHGc_NYfLVAwLpBzFexEhSVfY7CBcL1GfA08pgxPG5-NAOar1_OqxwA4jD4p_tK5dwF3wfyqvqxwIsEuND0V0bev_Q8GVyTmMY2KBr_Ns4tcc/s1600/P1130105.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-4tf7r7KI722OPL1284H9AF5ID1ZokAsHGc_NYfLVAwLpBzFexEhSVfY7CBcL1GfA08pgxPG5-NAOar1_OqxwA4jD4p_tK5dwF3wfyqvqxwIsEuND0V0bev_Q8GVyTmMY2KBr_Ns4tcc/s1600/P1130105.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>According to Hollywood, Nepal's airport has buses with chickens on them.<br />Silly Hollywood. Our chicken buses aren't at the airport. (Usually.)<br />But think about this: someone who worked for the movie<br />had the job of finding both a very beat-up bus and some chickens for it.</i><br />
<i><br /></i></td></tr>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<h4>
And the Oscar for Costume Design Goes to ... This Guy?</h4>
</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmRejjPNIpzYC5alApImoqtEpRMbOKnBiXMGShWPFwvp8MpfTi6wxl-VXce5owjHla41i8regcZxUfvbXufoAKMQ2YZFB0s7jfKaIkKyBP9cwRI3oBeWIih-Lqw8ntocSqRZS05HLeswk/s1600/P1140114.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmRejjPNIpzYC5alApImoqtEpRMbOKnBiXMGShWPFwvp8MpfTi6wxl-VXce5owjHla41i8regcZxUfvbXufoAKMQ2YZFB0s7jfKaIkKyBP9cwRI3oBeWIih-Lqw8ntocSqRZS05HLeswk/s1600/P1140114.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Persnickety Costume Director (far left) inspecting extra-wear at the Extras' Wardrobe-and-Dal Bhaat tent.<br />Yes, they fed us dal bhaat. I think we were supposed to get a box of sandwiches<br />from the Hyatt Bouddha,, but the drivers ate our sandwiches and so we got the Nepali food,</i><br />
<i>which was dal bhaat and probably better than the sandwiches anyway.</i><br />
<i>They get points for several things: </i><br />
<i>1) The Second Second Assistant Director (at center </i><i>in the puffy black vest) helped serve us lunch; and,</i><br />
<i>2) Lunch included both alu achar AND lapsi achar. Good job, all around.</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<h4 style="text-align: center;">
<b>Extras Hard at Work</b></h4>
<i><br /></i>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTe4LHunSFuo-w_QDOcTW53_xOJ1j477hXmAS2IoM75FUeIP7RANJW8S_lzVC2bKrwu8CvIlqPWH3Tqqisi38lnRDOm-Jnl-VMHOOzQzqrUoeBnZkwAD8lwkjuzxCVUd3SBncmXQUfISI/s1600/P1140156.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTe4LHunSFuo-w_QDOcTW53_xOJ1j477hXmAS2IoM75FUeIP7RANJW8S_lzVC2bKrwu8CvIlqPWH3Tqqisi38lnRDOm-Jnl-VMHOOzQzqrUoeBnZkwAD8lwkjuzxCVUd3SBncmXQUfISI/s1600/P1140156.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Western extras, waiting at a ticket counter</i><br />
<i>for the scene where they play people waiting.at a ticket counter.</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHEch01ZBL5dTpbWQPtlW4CiGVYpCt2UI6ihJTngzfsUDmJBQ_Uce-OgwBx30OjvwQQf38cJDe016KAXpruSxCNMpl51vHXJb9rdgjzQyQj0YiDBgiRzxtbOtCeU6qMREktM-H9TASFT4/s1600/P1140120.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHEch01ZBL5dTpbWQPtlW4CiGVYpCt2UI6ihJTngzfsUDmJBQ_Uce-OgwBx30OjvwQQf38cJDe016KAXpruSxCNMpl51vHXJb9rdgjzQyQj0YiDBgiRzxtbOtCeU6qMREktM-H9TASFT4/s1600/P1140120.JPG" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>More extras, looking 1996-ish.</i><br />
<i>I'm a historic costume geek, so naturally</i><br />
<i>I took lots of pictures of the costumes.</i><br />
<i>(Stars? What stars? I want to see how they do '96!)</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<h4 style="text-align: center;">
<b>Cameras Are Really Big and Heavy</b></h4>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><br /></i></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMEYChCV72aJZWP_jPIkZGn-QbdsrBE5IwwI74_8_l_gcFsL0GgKXDEDfS9vCnsiIbsSNCDAe7bmbi6z9EbviJs5UYXXynrsbbJOAGA5YIOPZZoXCdqbjAt__rP0MeXra1GPCZTOmbzqA/s1600/P1140170.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMEYChCV72aJZWP_jPIkZGn-QbdsrBE5IwwI74_8_l_gcFsL0GgKXDEDfS9vCnsiIbsSNCDAe7bmbi6z9EbviJs5UYXXynrsbbJOAGA5YIOPZZoXCdqbjAt__rP0MeXra1GPCZTOmbzqA/s1600/P1140170.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Filming something.<br />Granted, my shot isn't exactly a good one,<br />but that's why he has a job as a cameraman in movies and I don't.</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<h4 style="text-align: center;">
<b>The Ones That Got Away</b></h4>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNKUxiXYbqJB8zy36z50vIVfsd4W3-5K65Q5wRHcK_SblLoqBSAymzxhzkkh25k_UyuVKWCdRJQSvYHdM3lFA3pmzXr6Jcj-znYE9zYvfHHHWwW0zVmHsGzZTRuW1KnVTrm557Vqolt_Y/s1600/P1140122-001.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNKUxiXYbqJB8zy36z50vIVfsd4W3-5K65Q5wRHcK_SblLoqBSAymzxhzkkh25k_UyuVKWCdRJQSvYHdM3lFA3pmzXr6Jcj-znYE9zYvfHHHWwW0zVmHsGzZTRuW1KnVTrm557Vqolt_Y/s1600/P1140122-001.JPG" height="576" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Not extras, but if I worked for the movie, I'd have made them be in it. </i><br />
<i>These folks were definitely around in 1996. I suppose they were headed to a plane,</i><br />
<i>but wouldn't they rather be in a Hollywood movie?</i><br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="font-style: italic; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
So there you have it. My day with the stars.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Check it out when it hits the big screen: <i>Everest. </i>Or maybe it'll be called something else by then, like <i>Into Thin Air </i>or <i>Spiderman on Everest. </i>It stars Jake Gyllenhaal, Josh Brolin, Jason Scott and me. Plus a crate full of chickens.<br />
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<div>
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Monsoon Rose http://www.blogger.com/profile/00999328889578835210noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8324143663561756372.post-91623740682254899422014-01-02T15:26:00.003+05:452014-01-17T16:33:48.628+05:45Indiana Jones and the Ratty Nepalese: A Winter's Tale<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Meet The Ratty Nepalese, a character in Raiders of the Lost Ark, wherein his job is to attack Harrison Ford at a bar in Nepal. Which is located, it turns out, in Patan. Just like me.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgURCyFcWXjsV05Y7dT4XpQLzsHziTCaK-ITh6ihKLrm9wqOzfWrb7DKOB7LVmmOqWQpVeGJiYEY_YRV36VWQlixXZxma6xxXIYRteNbgR7CRblvCZOV6WFGiKymvaNA_lnj1z0bVDvwQ/s1600/Ratty_Nepalese.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgURCyFcWXjsV05Y7dT4XpQLzsHziTCaK-ITh6ihKLrm9wqOzfWrb7DKOB7LVmmOqWQpVeGJiYEY_YRV36VWQlixXZxma6xxXIYRteNbgR7CRblvCZOV6WFGiKymvaNA_lnj1z0bVDvwQ/s1600/Ratty_Nepalese.jpg" title="Malcolm Weaver, stunt man and Ratty Nepalese. He was also apparently in Star Wars: Return of the Jedi and Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade." /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">The Ratty Nepalese.</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">That's really the official name of the character<br />played by, uh, Malcolm Weaver.</span></i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
There are three things that people not in Nepal tend to think of on those rare occasions when Nepal happens to cross their minds: Mount Everest, yetis, and that bit in Raiders of the Lost Ark where you see Marion's bar in the howling, snowy remoteness of the high Himalayas. I bet you didn't know that Marion's bar was in Patan. But <a href="http://indianajones.wikia.com/wiki/The_Raven"><span style="color: blue;">apparently that's the case. </span></a> So according to Spielberg, this is what my house should look like.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcxBSumn3Gt0d_HBVr5JOAeIX0UYqVlLsZY67Wh1wIE2bpNSsp8rQSfKkLV5tc_7CrSTbxcDgcsSmkA1yGZQ_b098ao-M1qhpJw2eYCVCTZZ5OWQbgIhDimv3o37XuY67OVNmj6rlPArc/s1600/TheRavenOutside.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcxBSumn3Gt0d_HBVr5JOAeIX0UYqVlLsZY67Wh1wIE2bpNSsp8rQSfKkLV5tc_7CrSTbxcDgcsSmkA1yGZQ_b098ao-M1qhpJw2eYCVCTZZ5OWQbgIhDimv3o37XuY67OVNmj6rlPArc/s400/TheRavenOutside.jpg" height="206" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>"It's a crummy dive in a Nepalese village that nobody would otherwise visit,<br />but the local enjoys the warmth of the fire, and the climbers who hike through here<br />enjoy the company and the booze." -- Marion Ravenswood, on her bar in Patan</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Those who know Nepal might quibble that Patan is a city of over 200,000 people who answer census questions (and maybe a million who don't), and is to Kathmandu what Brooklyn is to New York. It's K-Town's Siamese twin, or rather Siamese quadruplet, since there were once four kingdoms in the Valley -- Kathmandu, Patan, Bhaktapur and Kirtipur -- whose kings, being relatives and hence bitter rivals, engaged in a long game of one-upmanship that involved trying to build more temples than each other. It was a familial Cold War fought with temples, and left the Kathmandu Valley with more temples than Wyoming has missile silos. They're everywhere. And so, now, is Kathmandu, which is really one tangled multi-limbed quadruplet of a city, complete with clogged arteries and, well, a whole lot of temples.<br />
<br />
In spite of all the concrete and an overall population of maybe 2 to 5 million (give or take a million, because who's counting?), it doesn't sound right to use the word "metropolis" for a place where cows roam on dirt streets. But Patan can be told apart from Kathmandu only because they're divided by the Bagmati River, which you could walk across if you were a cow and didn't mind using shoals of plastic and coagulated debris as a sidewalk. I have seen cows walk across it, munching on plastic. Free-range cows, fed on free-range plastic. <i>Got milk? It comes with added BPA!</i><br />
<br />
I'm in Technically Patan, but it would take me about 10 minutes by bicycle to get to Technically Kathmandu, if I got up the nerve to brave the highly creative traffic pattern and didn't get smacked by a hit-and-run motorcycle or fall on the bumpy potholed roads. Both of which have happened to me. Whereas it does not look as if Marion had that particular worry, in her version of Patan. Although she did have to worry about Giant Sherpas, who have not, thus far, caused me any particular trouble.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrGqpzmPwJes6AjtsoLtZew7jL4RrPPna6sULYHwOjxMZFtFpPWWtX-lhalfYraTKV8fHOkYaJdeDY3RNLHnBhJrXIMfYaioRSPOKo-EI28GsDxikGoqx0bWTMI5fOj1h1t0UqZOcoM84/s1600/Giant+Sherpa.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrGqpzmPwJes6AjtsoLtZew7jL4RrPPna6sULYHwOjxMZFtFpPWWtX-lhalfYraTKV8fHOkYaJdeDY3RNLHnBhJrXIMfYaioRSPOKo-EI28GsDxikGoqx0bWTMI5fOj1h1t0UqZOcoM84/s400/Giant+Sherpa.jpg" height="260" width="400" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzM_lSN5nZfHuGXHCSKzoVpqNUFx1xnSS1kIIucaBFyhKR5vvq9FcNLeYdrWDCIOW1Z3vEKlghqd4uvXhdXblE-RuKDr8DUPHS3b96_y3gX3SNaezY2f4PmmuUU2evNGNz9afbVrLM1DM/s1600/tenzing+norgay+and+hillary.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzM_lSN5nZfHuGXHCSKzoVpqNUFx1xnSS1kIIucaBFyhKR5vvq9FcNLeYdrWDCIOW1Z3vEKlghqd4uvXhdXblE-RuKDr8DUPHS3b96_y3gX3SNaezY2f4PmmuUU2evNGNz9afbVrLM1DM/s400/tenzing+norgay+and+hillary.jpg" height="293" title="Tenzing Norgay and Hillary photo originally from Reuters, 1953" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">At left is Indiana fighting in the frigid remoteness of Patan with The Giant Sherpa, played by Pat Roach (who was also The German Mechanic in the same film, the Chief Guard in Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom, and a Gestapo in Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade, and thus may have been Indiana's most persistent foe.) At right is a Not Giant Sherpa, Tenzing Norgay Sherpa, with Edmund Hillary during their first interview after they summitted Everest in 1953. Hmmm. Come to think of it, he really was kind of giant. </span> </i></td></tr>
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Actually, Patan looks like this, if you're taking pictures for a guide book ...<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjR_RzdnG3DOZcEuF-OG6t0dQAe-V0pwJ5oYHc7K-VzRxz-dCishqt2GiQ5RAkGTnLtwxnoYwniReWY1GW2Jkm-38iH3_MN5IA5j02Lil5rm_pXX4a_00d2pXJjw4Qr3IsEhntgoLuMEck/s1600/Patan+Durbar+Square.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjR_RzdnG3DOZcEuF-OG6t0dQAe-V0pwJ5oYHc7K-VzRxz-dCishqt2GiQ5RAkGTnLtwxnoYwniReWY1GW2Jkm-38iH3_MN5IA5j02Lil5rm_pXX4a_00d2pXJjw4Qr3IsEhntgoLuMEck/s400/Patan+Durbar+Square.jpg" height="165" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Patan Durbar Square, about a 20-minute walk from our house</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
... or like this, if you're just taking pictures of your kid on the roof ...<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQlQ6nB-rJBw_7LNYykEW-hMvRYcAEz9XS3xCmUW6Q70tQmaOZCqx1nXVrUIaCWL84P20zqBqzN_nCqAj_WzE7hdRDEMq42vP1Dj2cKIiyhbflcyI6leJBPnnNlJjxAwp8tV1JSOTpSls/s1600/P1000689.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQlQ6nB-rJBw_7LNYykEW-hMvRYcAEz9XS3xCmUW6Q70tQmaOZCqx1nXVrUIaCWL84P20zqBqzN_nCqAj_WzE7hdRDEMq42vP1Dj2cKIiyhbflcyI6leJBPnnNlJjxAwp8tV1JSOTpSls/s400/P1000689.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Scenic view from our roof, with teenager, laundry and urban sprawl</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
... or sometimes like this, if you're walking down the street and all of a sudden a giant tree thing comes lurching at you.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMl1KnFaBBQlQ7VPgYFpcBfAzdbHmFG04lpViCb-8C6SAYbpsKUe7-QxixobZU0HFYshdFQR_cvE4QOMy6GfiC5UPpbUvXByG15NFEww-RRsXOrUhk2iDgGUCDCfIGyXjo0B97idoR1C8/s1600/P1000844.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMl1KnFaBBQlQ7VPgYFpcBfAzdbHmFG04lpViCb-8C6SAYbpsKUe7-QxixobZU0HFYshdFQR_cvE4QOMy6GfiC5UPpbUvXByG15NFEww-RRsXOrUhk2iDgGUCDCfIGyXjo0B97idoR1C8/s400/P1000844.JPG" height="400" title="The Giant Christmas Tree thing from the Raato Machendranath Festival that makes it rain." width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Happy Holidays! But this is not a Christmas tree. It's built to make it rain,</i><br />
<i>which it achieves each year by getting pulled on ropes through the streets of Patan<br />by the people of Patan, or at least by a bunch of rowdy young men, as a huge crowd follows because</i><br />
<i>it's sacred and it's tradition and also because it's like watching a giant wreck about to happen.</i><br />
<i>And it does rain afterwards. So I'm not arguing with experience. </i><br />
<i>Plus I wouldn't want to jinx it. The darned thing is about five stories tall.</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
See? No snow. No howling wilderness with Ratty Nepalese and Giant Sherpas bursting in from the cold to have fights with Indiana Jones. No Sherpas at <i>all, </i>traditionally, since their homeland is up north in Solu Khumbu (at least before half of them bought trekking agencies and then moved to the US to run restaurants). But here's the thing. You don't need snow to be cold. What you need to be cold is to live in Nepal in the winter. Because we have no central heating. So on another level, beyond the deceptive surface of concrete houses and stores that sell Tang and transplanted Sherpas who run trekking agencies and own multi-story houses with marble floors and yet no heat (until they get tired of being cold and move to Florida and rent their house to foreigners), this is definitely Spielberg's Nepal.<br />
<br />
Except for one problem. Look at that fireplace. Seriously. That FIREPLACE. Who has <i>ever </i>seen a real Nepali house with a fireplace like that?<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcKs9FI4wnq9LSau2ISRdsFr5o3bNB03T5OR7kY0rzaHIy92YnmnxC6Q1VhSOrtAqbnd7Zaw6YQNWNJxRvGlXQrlE8-ZpyA8XZH423Dxl5xY3K_xDttvGWXil18VT2ZQJy56QtaCwtj5M/s1600/TheRavenInside.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcKs9FI4wnq9LSau2ISRdsFr5o3bNB03T5OR7kY0rzaHIy92YnmnxC6Q1VhSOrtAqbnd7Zaw6YQNWNJxRvGlXQrlE8-ZpyA8XZH423Dxl5xY3K_xDttvGWXil18VT2ZQJy56QtaCwtj5M/s640/TheRavenInside.jpg" height="360" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>I want that fireplace!</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
You get this ...<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgjfwFGYxLrUkm12T0MQSvHce3DZuWtP_jNcbCrs2mJCkzI-u8vfuDSAw8p-c3p5udGndy-bbY1vj7rTruumj47mmmPgLplN-ezcNdINm9dedl_GZyJT1whZ7tpJK5j1fVqeaW9aYXUeE/s1600/kitchen-fire.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgjfwFGYxLrUkm12T0MQSvHce3DZuWtP_jNcbCrs2mJCkzI-u8vfuDSAw8p-c3p5udGndy-bbY1vj7rTruumj47mmmPgLplN-ezcNdINm9dedl_GZyJT1whZ7tpJK5j1fVqeaW9aYXUeE/s400/kitchen-fire.jpg" height="266" title="OK, I admit it. I grabbed this from the web. I have lots of pics, but they're on my other computer. It's from an NGO called Practical Action. Google them; they seem to be involved with clean energy. Which is a good thing." width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Typical rural cook stove</i><br />
<i><br /></i></td></tr>
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Or you get this ...<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRRKyo7RqKDM2grRucXPy26CNGg_rtDTkZOnEjEdB70xYopIPPFYCvbpELh39s8mV8qjx6fjwms2OPnT4k6GPd4H4gdjhIF_KRb23oT2mxtV8hZ5osqax53nECs2vr9A6jXtmxOPqV33w/s1600/PA130256.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRRKyo7RqKDM2grRucXPy26CNGg_rtDTkZOnEjEdB70xYopIPPFYCvbpELh39s8mV8qjx6fjwms2OPnT4k6GPd4H4gdjhIF_KRb23oT2mxtV8hZ5osqax53nECs2vr9A6jXtmxOPqV33w/s400/PA130256.JPG" height="300" title="Hallway of a modern concrete home; this lady rents several rooms and had built a temporary cooking fire in a shared hallway." width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>True, it doesn't have quite the golden romantic glow of a fire in a traditional home. <br />But if you need a fire, well, you can build it right in the hallway.<br />And if a Giant Sherpa comes in, she can disarm him easily by offering a cup of tea.</i></td></tr>
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Or, in the city, you can enjoy the warm glow of liquid propane cylinders in cabinet heaters.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzBobfo6YQMzvx1KjLHBG7bIoP4UHFWhiln1s4f05HQi0W_NxV2Gzy6mFStj30O8ZWPqyL0XlYydwumtGhznNaNMRoCBvHA1aLjXLMUy_1XRKx4nBMCl3zskvktAAC0JqVD-cVb1C_z8A/s1600/150.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzBobfo6YQMzvx1KjLHBG7bIoP4UHFWhiln1s4f05HQi0W_NxV2Gzy6mFStj30O8ZWPqyL0XlYydwumtGhznNaNMRoCBvHA1aLjXLMUy_1XRKx4nBMCl3zskvktAAC0JqVD-cVb1C_z8A/s320/150.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
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But you don't get fireplaces in a Western sense, with a mantle to decorate for the holidays. Not unless you're in a tourist guesthouse or a modern house with a fireplace added so it can be rented to expats. Fireplaces in Nepali homes are practical affairs: they're either mud stoves or, high in the mountains, open hearths in the middle of the floor, and you cook on them as well as warm yourself. This is why, when we lived in Washington DC, my husband may have been the only guy in our neighborhood to roast potatoes in our living room fireplace. And it's also why my mother-in-law, when she visited America, had absolutely no interest in sitting around the fire just to look at it. She'd been making fires every day of her life; to her, it was about as fascinating as sitting around gazing at an oven.<br />
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Many years ago, on my first trip to Nepal, I recall the complaints of a French couple I met on the trail in an area with few tourists and no "apple pie" guesthouse culture: <i>It is smokey. We cannot sleep in the houses because it is smokey. Why do they not have chimneys? In France, all the old houses have a chimney. </i>They had come to Nepal and discovered, to their chagrin, that it was not France.<br />
<br />
All would have been well if they'd just found Marion's bar. Because she has a lovely fireplace, with a mantel and everything. I am going to look for Marion's bar right now, because there's a gas shortage and our cylinder needs changing and we will soon be freezing in the cold chill of Spielberg's Nepal.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmyIUNh7AWGcwBMtBwF5ev0h_gosPLkQsUa4uMLPOevQZeYLEqjZEY2Xdt-1e7TFpRHdVhSRaPzkJ0XbfG20oie2H1oiShmyu6UVV6xyEyWa993CHlSNPhC0WuQu8VdPX2ra3XqfxQtLE/s1600/marion's+fireplace.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmyIUNh7AWGcwBMtBwF5ev0h_gosPLkQsUa4uMLPOevQZeYLEqjZEY2Xdt-1e7TFpRHdVhSRaPzkJ0XbfG20oie2H1oiShmyu6UVV6xyEyWa993CHlSNPhC0WuQu8VdPX2ra3XqfxQtLE/s640/marion's+fireplace.jpg" height="272" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Marion's fireplace has the added benefit of coming with Harrison Ford.</i><br />
<i>My source of heat is a cabinet heater with gas cylinder. It comes with my husband.</i><br />
<i>But he does have an Indiana Jones hat. </i><i>So it all works out.</i><br />
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Monsoon Rose http://www.blogger.com/profile/00999328889578835210noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8324143663561756372.post-15398007923569102162013-12-15T10:38:00.000+05:452013-12-16T07:59:18.536+05:45The Diesel-Fueled Time Machine on Winter Setting<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXhJy0WamtgZx6fnw2beipBLSnvpGJNKIZHVsC2aPNW9THdeyMdDxe22HWRL0BmXzpRh9nQfOHfknbleQlKXyI-02NQEclhR1ypLC9phgFdt0QvTNhXEbblHJTotKqhnoRVOUecjp2c9U/s1600/PC140091.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXhJy0WamtgZx6fnw2beipBLSnvpGJNKIZHVsC2aPNW9THdeyMdDxe22HWRL0BmXzpRh9nQfOHfknbleQlKXyI-02NQEclhR1ypLC9phgFdt0QvTNhXEbblHJTotKqhnoRVOUecjp2c9U/s320/PC140091.JPG" title="Picture taken by Teenager to save mom from the humiliation of selfie-hood" width="192" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><b>My medieval self(ie)</b><br />Ok, it's not really a selfie.<br />I started to memorialize my everyday<br />Medieval Ellis Island Baba Yaga<br />Goes to Market look,<br />but The Teenager stopped me,<br />because apparently moms<br />are already lame enough<br />without being selfie-takers .</i></td></tr>
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For historians, a stint in a place like Nepal should be mandatory. Like basic training in the Army. Literature scholars could use it too. And filmmakers. I can arrange it, for a small fee.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIv4SqRncGtcRlafhjlZTl1AtAnmM_MnzdGuJFWabtvDjDhXJIOWBKVjoEdX4axOeYEF-XrIOjTfVH1ijlv5swbHMDnAtwRLLwxcgZHakbvigUiA-Q907dNdKh-rWReRKlQVP86FzbSTA/s1600/PIX.+Medieval+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img alt="" border="0" height="293" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIv4SqRncGtcRlafhjlZTl1AtAnmM_MnzdGuJFWabtvDjDhXJIOWBKVjoEdX4axOeYEF-XrIOjTfVH1ijlv5swbHMDnAtwRLLwxcgZHakbvigUiA-Q907dNdKh-rWReRKlQVP86FzbSTA/s400/PIX.+Medieval+1.jpg" title="Yes, another "borrowed" picture. From someone on Flickr who wasn't too lazy to get out of bed in the morning and take this. I'd take one, too, but it's COLD in the morning!" width="400" /></a>We live here with a foot dipped into Medieval Normal. Not Medieval Exotic (which is the tourist experience), but Medieval Normal. That struck me in a visceral way last evening, as I flipped a shawl over my head against the night's chill and headed down the lane with the other triangular shapes of shawl-encased women, all strolling to the street market where vendors sat at their carts in the dark and children hovered nearby at a fire. I bought, naturally, some turnips. (What else would I buy, dressed in a shawl?)<br />
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In our Medieval Normal, water for washing has to be hauled at times from the well, and clothes don't dry if there is no sun.<br />
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This morning I woke to the sound of a <i>gayin, </i>a minstrel going house-to-house and singing outside the gate for spare change or his daily bread. (Well, a bowl of rice poured into his sack.) It was normal so I went back to sleep.<br />
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Hawkers come down the street chanting their wares, <i>knives to grind, knives to grind. </i><br />
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The Teenager wears a wool cap inside; my husband has a nightcap. We take sartorial tips from Clement Moore. <i>Mama in her kerchief, and I in my cap, had just settled down for a long winter's nap ... </i><br />
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You don't bundle up to go outside; you bundle up because it's winter. You don't step out of the cold into toasty homes, because they're not. We have no central heating. No matter how privileged you are, you will huddle all winter in shawls and blankets, by sources of heat that come with flames. There'd be a democratic justice in that if the poor didn't end up relying less on heat (since fuel costs money) and more on getting really, really tough. Which they do. Do not mess with a poor person from the "developing world." They will out-tough anyone who hasn't come through a time machine. Although if anyone from the past ever does step through a time machine, take my word for it: <i>Definitely </i>do not mess with them.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisklBSGkl1RwF9TeGr6VyxOlj1XYPDBQeYa_dPphFSD138lzn1kcRQxN8j-JkdkscYDzRzLCPGdZbZwz15daJNWSeHOcpxFhi69kNShJPfRHkuGGvIPjdYSPMFEobvps36vrFFu8xpClg/s1600/Jon+Snow+is+Cold.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisklBSGkl1RwF9TeGr6VyxOlj1XYPDBQeYa_dPphFSD138lzn1kcRQxN8j-JkdkscYDzRzLCPGdZbZwz15daJNWSeHOcpxFhi69kNShJPfRHkuGGvIPjdYSPMFEobvps36vrFFu8xpClg/s400/Jon+Snow+is+Cold.jpg" title="Hats are so uncool. (Well, literally, actually. That's kind of the point.)" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>OK, Jon Snow, you are hot, but not THAT hot.<br />Put on a hat. Like your mama says. (Oh. Sorry.)</i></td></tr>
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In our Medieval Normal, we keep candles because we need them, and sometimes have to read by their light. OK, we also watch videos by them, because the not-very-medieval inverter that stores backup power will howl (literally) and plunge us into historically accurate darkness if we suck it dry with a big outrageous modern demand like Lights Plus Video Player. But it does add a dimension to Game of Thrones if you watch by candelight under a blanket. The Wall looks <i>really </i>cold. It is ridiculous that Jon Snow never wears a hat.<br />
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Of course, Nepal isn't the past. The Teenager ate a Snicker's bar last night while working on a PowerPoint. We can order pizza, although there are no street names or addresses, so we have to give verbal directions from "the big tree" or draw a map with an X, which is also what you do when you open a bank account or enroll in school or order furniture or, well, anything that involves an "address." Somewhere in the dusty files of Nepali banks and schools and shops must be vast stacks of what seem to be pirate maps. <i>The customer's address? Yes, we have it right here, X marks the spot. A few paces from ... is that a sketch of a tree or a utility pole? Well, go to the street and you'll figure it out. Which street? Oh, it says right here: "the street by the blue gate, near the school." Blue gate, school, tree. Or utility pole. You'll find it. And anyway, here's the mobile number. It's the modern world, after all. </i><br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwbFGbbo8_KmB0hCQ9iu90QxkSUprBk-nz-4fyVqE9gSmQIUkU96INWm029wn-GVdhcvzKQD0vTsU15sEGP-OquPZZeAmENivHXmZul9kvx_3QttmScqz5-83UHrdoxbSATw9au9WXh8M/s1600/elizadarnley.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwbFGbbo8_KmB0hCQ9iu90QxkSUprBk-nz-4fyVqE9gSmQIUkU96INWm029wn-GVdhcvzKQD0vTsU15sEGP-OquPZZeAmENivHXmZul9kvx_3QttmScqz5-83UHrdoxbSATw9au9WXh8M/s320/elizadarnley.jpg" title="Queen Elizabeth I, "The Darnley Portrait," c. 1575" width="222" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>A heater! A heater! My kingdom for a heater!<br />Notice her clothes. "Gaudy," you say? "Warm," I say.</i></td></tr>
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We do have internet, much of the time, and the flames that warm us come from gas cylinders that roll around in cabinet heaters whose turn-on sound of <i>click click </i>causes the instant appearance of the dog. (Everyone seeks comfort, even if they have fur. Unless they're Jon Snow.)<br />
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So it's a dip of a foot, not full immersion. Our Medieval Normal comes with gas, google, and HBO on DVDs with Chinese subtitles. But there are moments. And they happen each day. To live partly outside the 21st century Comfort Bubble may sound hard, but it's also an amazing privilege. How many people have daily moments that touch the past, and live where an ordinary walk to market is a connection across the centuries?<br />
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Hmmm. I hope there's electricity right now, and water in the tank, and gas in the cylinder that heats the contraption that heats the water for the shower, because I<i> hate </i>to haul and heat water on the stove to bathe. What did I say again about this being a privilege?<br />
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I get it about Elizabeth I and her once-a-month baths. I really do. But Game of Thrones, with the hot-spring water under the castle floors at Winterfell? They were totally cheating.<br />
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Monsoon Rose http://www.blogger.com/profile/00999328889578835210noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8324143663561756372.post-34222667447535126842013-12-10T19:45:00.000+05:452013-12-16T08:00:00.123+05:45The Real Value of Tang: or, the Sweeper Wears Prada.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
This post is about the real cost of life in Nepal, so let me start with something exotic: this turkey. It's the Dom Perignon of turkeys. It's caviar and truffles with wings, and its plastic red popup gizmo is the Lamborghini of all popup gizmos. I know this must be true, because this 12 pounds of imported bird ...<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRIKuEm3WUY5qwgU_qW1m9EcNjh6usEyp50N0V0Kz1HNT7xqNaA0OC2M6C1SGoyYjnRl8tKJYccK5UNiu89Z7epJlZBRQ7A7kh0ZYraX6TMJcpVk4MCoEMnobd1sjGE8KW-PjywHQ8CcY/s1600/PB280020.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" height="352" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRIKuEm3WUY5qwgU_qW1m9EcNjh6usEyp50N0V0Kz1HNT7xqNaA0OC2M6C1SGoyYjnRl8tKJYccK5UNiu89Z7epJlZBRQ7A7kh0ZYraX6TMJcpVk4MCoEMnobd1sjGE8KW-PjywHQ8CcY/s400/PB280020.JPG" title="A turkey being cooked in my kitchen, because I have a thing called an "oven," and also because the person who bought it was stumbling around in shock and in danger of being sucked into the vacuum caused by an empty wallet." width="400" /></a></div>
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... was purchased for 8000 rupees. That's<span style="font-size: large;"> <b>$80.</b></span><br />
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It really cost a lot more. A <b>whole </b>lot more. I'll explain how in a moment.<br />
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<span style="text-align: center;">For the record, I did not buy it. Although I happily helped to cook and eat it.</span><br />
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Turkeys are gourmet imports here, available from Thanksgiving through Christmas at "departmental stores," big grocery stores that can be seen as "Western style" as long as you perceive Western style as involving aisles of food-like substances in bright chemical-laden packages. These stores are a gold mine for nostalgia lovers. Take the latest craze, Tang, packets of which are given free with purchases and day-glo glasses of which are served as "juice" in homes and elite schools. Florence Henderson loved it in 1970, and she was Mrs. Brady, so Tang is all the Vitamin C you need, right? Also all the sugar, aspertame, sodium carboxmethylcellulose, tartrazine and Sunset Yellow Artificial Color. There's no actual juice, but it was served to astronauts and you can't have everything on the moon. We're in Nepal, close to Mount Everest, which is often said to be much like the moon. So there you go. It makes sense now.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhadZzI2vhCwwSBNI4FOoB9ia-1J01dRcEtbH7l8wiP4UzrPj9hCOgxbnUaWLM-HHQTGbItWocU246dvAbpD-gWc99AazKjYDcdVJ8IhftoZkQtDq5j9dfqpzPXN-nNpCRvEzaLj1gRxPw/s1600/PC010010.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhadZzI2vhCwwSBNI4FOoB9ia-1J01dRcEtbH7l8wiP4UzrPj9hCOgxbnUaWLM-HHQTGbItWocU246dvAbpD-gWc99AazKjYDcdVJ8IhftoZkQtDq5j9dfqpzPXN-nNpCRvEzaLj1gRxPw/s400/PC010010.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Sometimes there's no juice on the shelves,<br />just "juice beverage" and Tang.</i></td></tr>
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. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgME_8Fj8GLfCGQtGyOxou1r0ZzF0f5AifGa-5mSZM2hH8IpeXOEAFFvoHK345y7xu4oIal7nx6BaU_EG-PrAg8Zt8puNCGuc32HCMbqCHqJQ1iGvM1dfIruN4nWLNrKTK1TQk4Mxa8DWU/s1600/Tang.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgME_8Fj8GLfCGQtGyOxou1r0ZzF0f5AifGa-5mSZM2hH8IpeXOEAFFvoHK345y7xu4oIal7nx6BaU_EG-PrAg8Zt8puNCGuc32HCMbqCHqJQ1iGvM1dfIruN4nWLNrKTK1TQk4Mxa8DWU/s320/Tang.jpg" width="228" /></a><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7795LewLuRx6HjrzKzjDqcXZF4NOcDw2oce-qCuKu342tbnkoL-s61S7hLVG4O307CPWFDI_sf4Iv2nPM487XIGO4_AK3LwkcXd2kGOwu49dApvj1lLbkHry3hthOnNsEzShiO15BMTY/s1600/PC010011.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img alt="" border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7795LewLuRx6HjrzKzjDqcXZF4NOcDw2oce-qCuKu342tbnkoL-s61S7hLVG4O307CPWFDI_sf4Iv2nPM487XIGO4_AK3LwkcXd2kGOwu49dApvj1lLbkHry3hthOnNsEzShiO15BMTY/s400/PC010011.JPG" title="Tulip is a Danish company that makes a version of Spam; it's both a competitor of Hormel (the Spam creator) and a collaborator in some markets. Spam Spam Spam Spam Tulip!" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>To go with the Tang, you can try this Modern Convvenience Food,<br />which in Nepal ...</i></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPZVKQSa6cjhLITc93SjAnJa-pTl9E2P7rz7taIIWaTjyhkMpfGqEk0ib6_T5U8YKbqot2E2qtCmbw0MEAZJPz-nXBpHzwjX_My9_d-4yiGkL9S8flNkOKskXiF8dprf_07FytW2mypfs/s1600/spam+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img alt="" border="0" height="297" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPZVKQSa6cjhLITc93SjAnJa-pTl9E2P7rz7taIIWaTjyhkMpfGqEk0ib6_T5U8YKbqot2E2qtCmbw0MEAZJPz-nXBpHzwjX_My9_d-4yiGkL9S8flNkOKskXiF8dprf_07FytW2mypfs/s400/spam+2.jpg" title="If you don't get this, google it. Although I suppose that search term could have unfortunate results. " width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>... is eaten rather than<span style="color: red;"> <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=anwy2MPT5RE"><span style="color: red;">sung</span></a></span></i></td></tr>
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Here are more offerings to fill the kitchens of Nepal with <strike>diabetic shock whoops I mean </strike> glee. These are found in our local Big Western Departmental Store, wherein you can find entire aisles dedicated to the use of "Choco" as a prefix.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>99.4 percent pure Glucose. And such a happy,</i><br />
<i>healthy family. Well, happy anyway. </i><br />
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This store is called Salesway, like <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Safeway_Inc."><span style="color: red;">Safeway </span></a>but harder to pronounce. Try saying it fast: <i>Salesway, Salesway, Salesway.</i> Bet you can't. This Tang-packed tongue-twister of a shopping destination serves mainly the upper class, although people like to use the interesting euphemism "middle class," which to me implies "people in the middle" and so ought to have something to do with the average person, but instead seems to have acquired a new definition and now means "People Who Can Be a New Market for Tang." If you lived here, you would go to Salesway and be glad of it, just like me. <i>Wow! Corn syrup-laden peanut butter! Just like in a 1950s bomb shelter! I think I will buy that to enjoy with my Tang and spam. Do they have it in Choco flavor?</i><br />
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Thanks to the wonders of google, I know that at the Salesway's pronounceable alter ego, Safeway, you could get a turkey for 59 cents a pound, so our 12-pound turkey would have cost $7. But we live a more elegant life here on the moon, because our 12-pound turkeys fly in from Australia, apparently in First Class, or possibly comes on a rocket ship with the Tang, so we get to savor it for $80 like the gourmets we are.<br />
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But what, actually, does $80 mean in Real Nepali terms? Because, see, if you're a Westerner here you may have more or less multiples of that $80 in your budget, and you might not choose to spend it on turkey, but you've got it. Somewhere. How can we, who might think <i>Ohmigod it's $80, unbelievable, horrible, here's the $80 and ouch that hurt but put it on my credit card and yum yum, </i>conceptualize that amount?<br />
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Well, I've got a cheat sheet. So we now interrupt this edition of The Brady Bunch Get a Sugar Rush for a ...<br />
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Nepali Home Economics Lesson</h3>
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What is that 8,000 rupees in percent-of-salary terms? What would it <i>feel like? </i></div>
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Here's one benchmark. Eight thousand rupees ($80) is the monthly wage, give or take a bit, for drivers, cleaners, clerks, and teachers at small private schools -- people in jobs that elsewhere might earn an annual salary<a href="http://primaryschoolteachersalary.com/WV/Martinsburg/salary/Preschool-Teacher-Salary"><span style="color: red;"> somewhere around $24,000.</span></a> Yeah, it's described as minimum wage here, but lots of people earn less, so let's be real and call it low-wage or starting jobs.<br />
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Here are a few other salaries:<br />
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<i>Teacher in a government school:</i> 14,000 to 31,000 a month ($140 to $310).<br />
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<i>Police officers: </i>there's <a href="http://edusanjal.com/blog/2013/08/salary-of-government-officials-of-nepal"><span style="color: red;">a range,</span></a> but constables earn 14,830 ($148) and a senior superintendent earns about 30,000 ($300)<br />
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<i>Doctor: </i>20,000<a href="http://www.ekantipur.com/the-kathmandu-post/2013/07/30/nation/who-wouldnt-want-to-be-a-doctor/251771.html"><span style="color: red;"> starting salary</span></a> in Kathmandu, or 30,000 for specialists ($200 to $300).<br />
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<i>First-Class Government Officer: </i>30,000 a month ($300). The job level is roughly equivalent, if you speak Washingtonese, to a GS-13 who brings home $90,000 or a pre-tax $7,500 a month. Other government jobs are <span style="color: red;"><a href="http://edusanjal.com/blog/2013/08/salary-of-government-officials-of-nepal"><span style="color: red;">here</span></a>,</span> along with a bit of commentary about how they, uh, enhance their incomes.<br />
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<i>Engineer: </i>33,000 a month ($330) according to <span style="color: red;"><a href="http://www.salaryexplorer.com/salary-survey.php?&loctype=1&loc=151"><span style="color: red;">this site.</span></a> </span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYzVVeZHGSZE3k7wzhpB6oagNUltrDORy4nGSPi0wC5MiTfMwdeni6XAVSEwl0MRS2r4wkcViEk3ztHAVD1PrTPI4lF-YnFby6VZCOmzXhPeXPdV5csyruMLiq6o3AhoAk9yJF4FFfX9Y/s1600/PC020049.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYzVVeZHGSZE3k7wzhpB6oagNUltrDORy4nGSPi0wC5MiTfMwdeni6XAVSEwl0MRS2r4wkcViEk3ztHAVD1PrTPI4lF-YnFby6VZCOmzXhPeXPdV5csyruMLiq6o3AhoAk9yJF4FFfX9Y/s400/PC020049.JPG" title="This medical student has a friend with a residency in Virginia, where you don't have to pay a fifth of your monthly salary to get a dress. Nepal needs doctors, but doctors do sometimes need clothes. And food. And rent." width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>This medical student was buying a kurta salwar for a friend's<br />wedding. The cost was 4,700 rupees -- $47 for an American,<br />but a fifth of the monthly salary ($250) she'll be able to earn<br />as an entry-level doctor in Nepal. Imagine if you had to pay<br />a fifth of a doctor's typical starting salary for a party dress.<br />Prices are high because of the cost of material, labor,<br />transport costs and customs duties.</i></td></tr>
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Of course it does go higher. People<span style="color: red;"> <span style="color: red;"><a href="http://www.salaryexplorer.com/salary-search.php?loc=151&loctype=1"><span style="color: red;">on this helpful site self-report</span></a> </span></span>salaries as high as 117,000 for a financial manager, and Nepal does have far better-paid people than that as well. Lots of them. They own cars and big houses and some are so rich they could buy turkeys for the whole neighborhood. But they're not in the "middle class" unless you love euphemisms.<br />
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On the whole, the easiest way to grasp what money means is to think of percent-of-salary terms. On that scale (which can be a math project if you're a middle-school student who somehow stumbled onto this blog!), 1000 rupees becomes $250 on the percent-of-salary or "feels-like" scale. Looked at that way, the cost of that turkey is equivalent to about $2,000. It's the whole monthly pay of a low-paid employee, or just over a third for a GS-13. That's a heck of a bird.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Pringles feel like $50 for one cylinder</i></td></tr>
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Of course, Nepalis don't buy turkeys, which is an exotic gourmet import and priced to match. But people need clothing. For a budget middle-class sari or salwar kameez, a woman has to spend at least 1000 but probably closer to 1500 rupees. For a nice occasion, she needs at least 4,000. If she opts for jeans, they start at 800 Rs., and the shirt doesn't come for free.<br />
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So it's hard to get away with under $15-20 per outfit. Think $500 on the "feels like" scale. How many teachers or nurses or lawyers in the US, or even Junior League socialites, spend $500 on an outfit to wash the dishes in and $1000 for something to wear to a neighborhood party or a second cousin's wedding? But here, there's no other choice.<br />
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If you wanted some of the "luxury" processed imported foods that are increasingly found here, you might get some <b>Tang </b>(feels like $30 for one small packet), a one-person bag of <b>Lay's </b>of the type found in vending machines (feels like $10), a small roll of <b>Oreos </b>(feels like $20) or some instant coffee like <b>Nescafe </b>(feels like $30 for a micro-jar to $100 for a large jar). If you can't afford that -- and most people would consider a bag of Lay's or a roll of Oreo's a "splurge" purchase -- you'd certainly still need vegetables for dinner.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTHdFD1hMnnhfAqjaGTZ8P70_W8bK3SZzegFDUD-C1bGrPfDOLuiFf5MZT0KcL5NXijCyL9CHxWHhBwIzNW8lzPx30uysbTiDVzwWx6nq3sQjPmm5MAHhOU1BM7fiu6gqqhLOFqXxAi8U/s1600/PC030021.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTHdFD1hMnnhfAqjaGTZ8P70_W8bK3SZzegFDUD-C1bGrPfDOLuiFf5MZT0KcL5NXijCyL9CHxWHhBwIzNW8lzPx30uysbTiDVzwWx6nq3sQjPmm5MAHhOU1BM7fiu6gqqhLOFqXxAi8U/s400/PC030021.JPG" title="The veggie women at the street market near our house. Pros: It's the ultimate convenience store and supports small (very small) businesses. Cons: The veggies are probably sprayed with pesticides and covered with exhaust fumes. But they are in the supermarkets, too. You just don't see it." width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>My neighborhood street stalls for veggies, where people can buy ...</i></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>this much veggies for a "feel-like" cost of about </i><i>$50.</i><br />
<i>It's cheap if you say "$2.50," which is the cost for an American.</i><br />
<i>It doesn't feel cheap if you're in Nepal's real middle class.</i></td></tr>
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The other day I saw an ad posted for a full-time job in an organization that supposedly provides "economic empowerment." The salary offer? 5,000 to 7,000 for someone with a Bachelor's in Business Administration. That's under the minimum wage and technically illegal, but not uncommon. I'm imagining the letter home of the newly minted college grad who gets this job.<br />
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<i>Dear Mom and Dad, How was the harvest? I have a new job doing economic empowerment! Please send money. And rice. And lentils. By the way, have you considered raising turkeys?</i></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>This woman's total outfit, including budget-level sari, sandals, blouse </i><br />
<i>and now-faded shawl, probably </i><i>cost 2000 Rs ($20). </i><br />
<i>That's roughly equivalent, in "feels like" terms, to wearing $500 worth of clothes.</i><br />
<i>She does not look like a socialite.</i></td></tr>
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Monsoon Rose http://www.blogger.com/profile/00999328889578835210noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8324143663561756372.post-91842860763864391682013-12-05T18:39:00.003+05:452013-12-18T11:56:53.465+05:45Puppies! And the Father Is ...<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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About a month ago I <a href="http://singingdogsinthewildguavapatch.blogspot.com/2013/11/happy-worship-your-dog-day-wheres.html"><span style="color: red;">wrote about</span></a> the dog upstairs, a Fancy Full-Breed German Shepherd whose owners mated her with another Fancy Full-Breed Shepherd in the fond expectation of Fancy Shepherd Pups, except she was found in the morning in her locked cage with a street-cruising mutt who had somehow wiggled under the bars like a flea-ridden Houdini. They were both wagging their tails.<br />
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Two days ago Bhunti had puppies.<br />
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About half the dogs in Nepal seem to be named Bhunti, which basically means Cute Little Fatty. This Bhunti is skinny and gigantic. She's a frenetic tumbleweed of hair and bigness, unlike the Bhunti behind the gate a few doors down, who I've only seen as a snapping snout that seems attached to a Dachsund-crocodile mix. The dogs who are not Bhunti are mostly Blackie, Brownie, Whitey, or in the case of one dog on our lane, Chocolate-y. My husband's parents have a dog called Blackie. (They also have a grandson called Blackie<i>. Kale. </i>At least he isn't Chocolate-y, although that would have the benefit of distinguishing him from all the other village kids called Blackie.)<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Not a rat. It's thought to be two weeks premature, after<br />45 instead of 60 days gestation. </i></td></tr>
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If dog names are strikingly unoriginal, people's nicknames come straight out of the Little Rascals. In our family's village, there's a Fatty and a lot of Blackies and a hot-tempered guy called Chili Pepper and a real-life Froggy with a habit of flicking out his tongue when he talks. There's also a Dirty, <i>Jute,</i> or more accurately Contaminated-y but that doesn't flow as well in English. He was the first boy after seven girls and his parents called him that on the theory that witches or bad spirits wouldn't want to take a boy who's Contaminated. People do what they can for their kids.<br />
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There's a lot about Nepal that is Little Rascals with a Bollywood soundtrack, or Huck Finn with saris and a stinkier river. And in that kind of world, if you want a dog, you don't spend months researching The Right Breed for My Family, or go through a formal adoption process with paperwork and interviews to find if you're The Right Family for the Dog. You get a dog when a puppy follows you home, <i>can I keep her, please, I'll feed her leftovers like everyone does and it's not like I'll have to clean up the poo because she'll just poo on the streets with the other dogs. </i>Or maybe it's born in a shed behind the house, <i>Oh look, puppies, let's name the black one Blackie! </i><br />
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We didn't even know Bhunti was pregnant. Maybe she didn't either. She's a bit ditzy -- she's young, still a teenager as it were, plus she <i>is </i>a breed dog and around here it's not exactly careful breeding so if she had a family tree it would probably look like the old song "I Am My Own Grandpa" -- but the other day she popped out three puppies, who turned out to be premature. One was stillborn. Another, I'm sorry to say, was apparently mistaken for a mouse by Bhunti, who swallowed it. Still wriggling. Her owners saw it. "Bad dog! Do not eat your babies!"<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglsZiLyUJRK_SLxiB1heTHcnoA7WQ5MjcdO6FQ18k-JIFV-_8m8BZoyTXiEJ7Na90huDHPrApGI5StD1APVgkzevjVJn0y68jZoZyD0y410_p5my_duZAgIEmYXY4x3tK_-BqX-dTXANY/s1600/PC030027.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img alt="" border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglsZiLyUJRK_SLxiB1heTHcnoA7WQ5MjcdO6FQ18k-JIFV-_8m8BZoyTXiEJ7Na90huDHPrApGI5StD1APVgkzevjVJn0y68jZoZyD0y410_p5my_duZAgIEmYXY4x3tK_-BqX-dTXANY/s400/PC030027.JPG" title="You guessed right. That's a newborn preemie puppy attempting to suckle." width="400" /></a></div>
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This was a problem, because what do you do with a premature puppy whose teen mom thinks it's edible? It was taken away from its unhelpful mother to warm by a gas heater, and a paper muzzle was bought from a veterinarian's shop around the corner, and my teenager and the boy upstairs wrestled Bhunti into submission while an effort was made to milk her, which she did not appreciate, and then efforts were made to attach the hungry puppy to her teat, which she also did not appreciate, and after much fussing and a few drops of desultory milk everyone rested but Bhunti, who produced four more puppies after midnight. Three of whom died, but none of whom were eaten. So she's catching on.<br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgN1azvPLae4GP6zFkK9P-kWN89OAUQi4Am7O4RmKxVSm8ecoQZ_2XcDiZJOFYGA14AMw9M5xUQTap0GI1NCsFg5Rxl-VziwXJxFwc6IVwa6UFebaKfCtBQ-PMxYqtRN4_bsvBsn1PxXM/s1600/PC030043.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgN1azvPLae4GP6zFkK9P-kWN89OAUQi4Am7O4RmKxVSm8ecoQZ_2XcDiZJOFYGA14AMw9M5xUQTap0GI1NCsFg5Rxl-VziwXJxFwc6IVwa6UFebaKfCtBQ-PMxYqtRN4_bsvBsn1PxXM/s320/PC030043.JPG" title="Somehow I'm not hungry now." width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Whoops. I didn't mean it.</i></td></tr>
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The two survivors are doing as well as preemies can under the Darwinian circumstances. Bhunti is now nursing them agreeably, except that she won't eat her meals (the regular ones) so her milk isn't coming -- feeling a bit queasy in the stomach, perhaps? -- and she is very attentive and concerned whenever people come near her pups, maybe because she knows what can happen to them.<br />
<br />
It's impossible to solve the mystery of their father yet. Bhunti's family optimistically maintains that he must be the Fancy German Shepherd with whom she was mated in the apparent hope of magnifying her desirable genes for silky ditziness. I hope for their sake they're right, but I also hope for the sake of genetics and doggie toughness that it's the macho wall-leaping street dog with lock-breaking skills.<br />
<br />
So the mystery continues. Except that I predict they'll both be named Blackie.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQWq7Y88ZAFzbcvH-5rJgAOvdmmdzIQj30dJNLts7uI1ttC5rkPl0O8vdtq8ZK2xS2itr3J6vxEZAHdB52tI6r8pxHLzH98z229P7vpnnJU6jseOZTXCNiS4zfs9IixryylyV36zYbVyY/s1600/PC030002.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img alt="" border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQWq7Y88ZAFzbcvH-5rJgAOvdmmdzIQj30dJNLts7uI1ttC5rkPl0O8vdtq8ZK2xS2itr3J6vxEZAHdB52tI6r8pxHLzH98z229P7vpnnJU6jseOZTXCNiS4zfs9IixryylyV36zYbVyY/s400/PC030002.JPG" title="Aaaaaawww!" width="331" /></a></div>
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Monsoon Rose http://www.blogger.com/profile/00999328889578835210noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8324143663561756372.post-22994242484222553602013-11-20T10:33:00.001+05:452013-12-16T08:01:59.460+05:45The Eight Million Person March<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1oj-wysPTTTBFcXwc4AdFIIBJSeppVUkhOG6eIlgCgGGU2GPvdxYMhm1NnZxPjV2WI_CBJa2QQ11O_-I4c3OstW88SlthA4XzoTUsIdlbS7gLvUNTlrD_SG5lAceGeg79QJN1kbadPjY/s1600/PB190862-001.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1oj-wysPTTTBFcXwc4AdFIIBJSeppVUkhOG6eIlgCgGGU2GPvdxYMhm1NnZxPjV2WI_CBJa2QQ11O_-I4c3OstW88SlthA4XzoTUsIdlbS7gLvUNTlrD_SG5lAceGeg79QJN1kbadPjY/s400/PB190862-001.JPG" title="But does that apply to the armed police?" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>No smoking,and no weapons in the polling booth. In case you weren't sure.</i></td></tr>
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We just had an election here, and so I am forced to take a brief detour into that dark and muddled realm called Nepali Politics. I said <a href="http://singingdogsinthewildguavapatch.blogspot.com/2013/10/will-anything-blow-up-if-i-post-this.html"><span style="color: red;">when I started this blog</span></a> that I would <i>not,</i> <b><span style="font-size: large;">not,</span></b> <b><span style="font-size: large;">NOT</span></b> pontificate
about politics. I will leave that to the other 99.9 percent of people here,
because they are all so very good at it. Politics is the Nepali national pastime.
It’s what football is to Americans. Or rather, it's what football would be to Americans if they were fated to have no team but the Cleveland Browns. The whole country follows politics, talks about it,
speculates about it, hopes and dreams and cheers … and loses. Because <i>nothing ever works. </i><br />
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Of course, it's always possible that this time around, the people elected for this version of the 601-person team assembled to write the Constitution will actually write a Constitution. Heck, it's only been five years of not-writing so far. Eventually the folks in the Constituent Assembly (when it meets) will get tired of back-stabbing, tripping each other up, and holding their breath until they turn blue. Right? After all, Western donors have prepared them so well with junkets (whoops, I mean training trips) to Washington DC to see politics in action.<br />
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Wait. Let me think about that.<br />
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But here's the thing. Even though the enthusiasm level is in the doghouse ...<br />
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and even though NO TRAFFIC<i> </i>was allowed on election day<i> </i>ANYWHERE IN THE COUNTRY, meaning no cars or buses or motorbikes from 5 a.m. until midnight by order of the government, so that any of Nepal's 12 million registered voters who felt like casting a ballot had to walk to the polls like this ...<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZvhEXmHLeEFljjYS_p7Uw6jfNuGs6HV_MYPVM5Of3LnbW0azkSLw1190PHEhEp2Hgjyut16Wdxi-rsJBwDe1GYhTJhvDuIB9mVUq7UWMerDOEc87Dwa1tOHKWr0mvX2xsmH2GSZRMjtg/s1600/PB190923.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZvhEXmHLeEFljjYS_p7Uw6jfNuGs6HV_MYPVM5Of3LnbW0azkSLw1190PHEhEp2Hgjyut16Wdxi-rsJBwDe1GYhTJhvDuIB9mVUq7UWMerDOEc87Dwa1tOHKWr0mvX2xsmH2GSZRMjtg/s400/PB190923.JPG" title="Look! You can see the Himalayas!" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Kathmandu street on Election Day</i></td></tr>
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... and even though there were rumors of bombs, threats of bombs, and sometimes real bombs from a hardcore Maoist splinter group and a coalition of 33 allies who didn't join the election because, among other things, they said it was irresponsibly expensive (a point they decided to make by exploding some bombs) ...<br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj74eGhitsZn3MgtBIu2AUAr9mMcYYLOHqOjMfxO5UqDW8zpIq2QGYn3fvwyPRTtKLNiWgscpUTQ8W5IzzElX4g-Bb16Z6LuneBL1dQ0SDegZPO7wew0srzQTbCFqkZ4EKU3ROiupqC1YI/s1600/PB190884.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj74eGhitsZn3MgtBIu2AUAr9mMcYYLOHqOjMfxO5UqDW8zpIq2QGYn3fvwyPRTtKLNiWgscpUTQ8W5IzzElX4g-Bb16Z6LuneBL1dQ0SDegZPO7wew0srzQTbCFqkZ4EKU3ROiupqC1YI/s400/PB190884.JPG" title="These Lalitpur voters got the scenic polling place" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Temple doubled as polling place near my home</i></td></tr>
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">Nepal's voter turnout was</span> <span style="font-size: large;">70 percent.</span></b></div>
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That's right. Compared to the US's measly 57.5 percent<b> </b>in 2012.<br />
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In Kathmandu, where people tend to actually live where they're registered<i>, </i>the turnout was <b><span style="font-size: large;">75 percent.</span></b><br />
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That's in contrast to the rural areas where a lot of people are officially registered but really live in Kathmandu or work in Malaysia or the Persian Gulf, and there are no absentee ballots, so if people want to vote they have to return to their home villages like players in some kind of mass Christmas pageant, <i>and then the decree went forth that all the world may vote, but only from the house of thy parents, </i>except Nepalis take buses instead of donkeys. If you want to vote at a place not your parents, you have to prove you <i>really </i>moved by getting a Migration Certificate to show you have a Permanent Residence that isn't mom and dad's, even 20 years later. And no, a driver's license or a lease won't "prove" it. The teashop owner below has lived in Kathmandu for 22 years, but could only vote by going back to Biratnagar, a 14-hour bus ride. And of course if you live where you're registered but it's mountainous and remote, the walk to the poll might be as long as five hours. Although that beats several days on multiple buses, <i>followed </i>by walking.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrEEHM1Sd9SLeCJ7zC6moev_zCDDaHOEYjgWJI7ccB_d8kthdoICEbPRIkOlJ5dT2bn6Qtg-E0BAIkxPTB32VzzNial6NXmlc1c_81l7aImzh-fDYFenLoViLJB5fx8qtUHzLfReibDFA/s1600/PB190931.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrEEHM1Sd9SLeCJ7zC6moev_zCDDaHOEYjgWJI7ccB_d8kthdoICEbPRIkOlJ5dT2bn6Qtg-E0BAIkxPTB32VzzNial6NXmlc1c_81l7aImzh-fDYFenLoViLJB5fx8qtUHzLfReibDFA/s320/PB190931.JPG" title="That's my lovely new one-step-up-from-tarkari-wallah bicycle! This lady helpfully ran over to help when I fell over it like a doofus. When it was already stopped. I can explain. I really can." width="320" /></a></div>
"Ease of voting is a factor in rates of voter turnout," the ever-helpful Wikipedia informs us. Which suggests that if Nepali voters <i>didn't </i>have to take arduous rides on buses that might have bombs tossed at them, or weren't busy building World Cup stadiums in Qatar and <span style="color: red;"><a href="http://www.theguardian.com/world/2013/sep/25/revealed-qatars-world-cup-slaves"><span style="color: red;">sometimes dying in the heat</span></a> </span>to earn money for a better life back in Nepal, the voter turnout would be what? Ninety percent?</div>
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But people voted in spite of potential "voter turnout dampening factors" that included at least one explosion (with two people injured) in Kathmandu the night before the election, and another one that went off outside a Kathmandu polling place during the voting and injured three people, including the eight-year-old boy who picked up the bomb thinking it was a toy. Here are some writeups from <span style="color: red;"><a href="http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/world-asia-24987573"><span style="color: red;">BBC</span></a>, </span><a href="http://www.aljazeera.com/news/asia/2013/11/nepal-votes-elect-constituent-assembly-2013111933149801359.html"><span style="color: red;">Al Jazeera</span></a> and <a href="http://www.google.com/hostednews/afp/article/ALeqM5gmK-hIOX7WM_cUZP_GQqpOIz6mvw?docId=b8f04837-7dbc-459a-a611-9bd0634d28cd"><span style="color: red;">Agence France Press</span></a> which give confirmed details. We've seen reports of other bombs and IEDs in the Nepali language press, and if you hang out for a while in any shop, everyone has a friend who saw a bomb or heard a bomb and is absolutely certain about it. Some of it might even be true.<br />
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And yet ... 70 percent. And not <i>all </i>of them are really votes cast using the name and voter I.D. of someone working in Qatar who has no idea he just voted. Pretty impressive, Nepal. Now if that Constitution can just get written ...<br />
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Here are a few shots from election day while I was bicycling around the 'hood on the beautifully clear-except-for-soccer-ball roads:<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYs_6RnbS9Qit4FIywWiPt8RdgSGDXFSULSjeFLPggxmUu9GKKAFFM3ETewJVtTYQSA23VJJCxAKaEIFGVgmTN7r_hjIFd6PtZuR97tUjU6mgA68exbnSNHT8zmZZUfLeBPLBx7cSUIv4/s1600/PB190895-001.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYs_6RnbS9Qit4FIywWiPt8RdgSGDXFSULSjeFLPggxmUu9GKKAFFM3ETewJVtTYQSA23VJJCxAKaEIFGVgmTN7r_hjIFd6PtZuR97tUjU6mgA68exbnSNHT8zmZZUfLeBPLBx7cSUIv4/s400/PB190895-001.JPG" title="Posters in Patan for Saroj Dangol. Whatever he'd be like in the Constituent Assemby, I can say that, as a poster plasterer, he gets the work done. His posters are everywhere." width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><b>Above: </b>Posters for a mainstream Maoist candidate.</i><br />
<i>Yes, we differentiate here between mainstream Maoists and splinter Maoists.</i><br />
<i><b>Below: </b>U.N. observer takes picture of other U.N. observer.</i><br />
<i><br /></i></td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiRIxaQsiNKwLnNPp_YX9TNCdUkLCiAU8OssVNfV0IGuH7FdkQsxOSyv6oJsKwpt2jOXwnD7mhjMevx0zmOozkvSc-BvixZplxHMOgA5p_V9XM8jexZTDw0ZPIWVmQWVx7gKQtQeIsjH4/s1600/PB190864-001.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiRIxaQsiNKwLnNPp_YX9TNCdUkLCiAU8OssVNfV0IGuH7FdkQsxOSyv6oJsKwpt2jOXwnD7mhjMevx0zmOozkvSc-BvixZplxHMOgA5p_V9XM8jexZTDw0ZPIWVmQWVx7gKQtQeIsjH4/s400/PB190864-001.JPG" title="I observed 2 UN observers at Patan Durbar Square" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIBfdTHkdlQMx5ISR5r8l_Un26kN_-Y6UtMbHHUNAzm0TxJuGkP56XZftVXVWRhPatBIPbtu6rd03HWSa4nXYndmwyUH3yJhjGAqSNTlYBDmB7BRb0-5s9IoHqbKaw5SBkOlopW3KxJLk/s1600/PB190872-001.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIBfdTHkdlQMx5ISR5r8l_Un26kN_-Y6UtMbHHUNAzm0TxJuGkP56XZftVXVWRhPatBIPbtu6rd03HWSa4nXYndmwyUH3yJhjGAqSNTlYBDmB7BRb0-5s9IoHqbKaw5SBkOlopW3KxJLk/s400/PB190872-001.JPG" title="Stuffing the ballot box ... I mean mixing the votes (I guess) of the Mangalbazar neighborhood, which voted at Patan Durbar Square" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><b>Above</b>: Collecting votes, under the eye of armed police;</i><br />
<i><b>Below</b>: I counted no less than six ball games along one stretch of main road.</i><br />
<i>If you were a bicyclist, dodging those balls was almost as perilous as traffic.</i><br />
<i>(OK, not really. But there were some near misses.)</i><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUZpXIkmmznDiKOa0NwlOMLb-0t5hLBjdIVMkKjjd3-JkJ8ls1PV-fMBN8-jQPsKUBB34e9sxXvx6q0_l4C-y7p7fSx795p2ePm3AulMFghGDkKhrbhHcfckrwFjFXxWRB8t-jzzqzt8A/s1600/PB190850.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUZpXIkmmznDiKOa0NwlOMLb-0t5hLBjdIVMkKjjd3-JkJ8ls1PV-fMBN8-jQPsKUBB34e9sxXvx6q0_l4C-y7p7fSx795p2ePm3AulMFghGDkKhrbhHcfckrwFjFXxWRB8t-jzzqzt8A/s640/PB190850.JPG" title="Recognize it? If you live in Kathmandu, you might not, because it's normally a snarl of traffic. Hint: Back up a few feet and turn left for Restaurant Row." width="640" /></a></div>
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There's no John King and his Magic Board in Nepal, and no projections coming up at the top of the hour, so there's also no sitting around the TV waiting for the results to be announced. Counting starts today, by hand, of the votes cast by the roughly 8.4 million people who walked through shuttered streets, braved the pre-election strikes to take buses to their villages beforehand, trekked for hours over the mountains, and hobbled by cane to the polls to cast their votes ... in spite of being utterly disgusted and discouraged by Nepal's dysfunctional democracy.<br />
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One of these years, I hope they win.<br />
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Monsoon Rose http://www.blogger.com/profile/00999328889578835210noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8324143663561756372.post-82355686558599957942013-11-14T11:37:00.000+05:452013-11-18T13:05:28.642+05:45Bunned in Kathmandu<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhv4dBdehzr4yhrMcbAMjXOz_r3w7rjiLpPsL76rhc7dybDFv7h0yutJpKUuZZv4b7MPk1GHV36O_5ZXpkN_5BA6Zn89J9xiWSozb-lwKH9u5hysJc2LYglYMCpdulD7ZkcYbmw4_EoP6o/s1600/10-days-strike-300x225.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhv4dBdehzr4yhrMcbAMjXOz_r3w7rjiLpPsL76rhc7dybDFv7h0yutJpKUuZZv4b7MPk1GHV36O_5ZXpkN_5BA6Zn89J9xiWSozb-lwKH9u5hysJc2LYglYMCpdulD7ZkcYbmw4_EoP6o/s400/10-days-strike-300x225.jpg" title="Watch out for fine print when you advertise a strike. People might believe you." width="400" /></a></div>
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Ever heard the expression, "What if they gave a war and nobody came?"<br />
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That's how the Kathmandu version of the current Huge Mega-Spectacular Multi-Episode 10-Day Bandh is turning out.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheZnc8uepJjm0-KnobTv3KxIDQIfvq6N-lx-rdMzcKmirqmuniUB6JftO0YXXTaYxaZfbaMOZTKkBU-_8FKVMq7782myXsSV_H1dsVUIoui3oEUKS9YUjr5QD2fKDpufEAKlKQoh19a58/s1600/nepal-banda.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" height="184" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheZnc8uepJjm0-KnobTv3KxIDQIfvq6N-lx-rdMzcKmirqmuniUB6JftO0YXXTaYxaZfbaMOZTKkBU-_8FKVMq7782myXsSV_H1dsVUIoui3oEUKS9YUjr5QD2fKDpufEAKlKQoh19a58/s320/nepal-banda.jpg" title="Cartoon by a guy named Navin. I'll get better at these credits eventually." width="320" /></a>Before I get into the latest bandh, which is the Star Wars: Phantom Menace of bandhs (<i>another episode? it'll be a SMASH! the BEST OF ALL! oh ... uhhhh ...), </i>here's a word of explanation for those who have stumbled onto this blog from a place that is not Nepal. A bandh<i> </i>is what snow days would be in Washington DC if political parties could order the snow to fall. It's a general strike wherein one group tries to prove how many people agree with whatever statement they're making, so the city (or country) shuts down, in theory because everyone supports the statement, but in reality because (a) it's a day off work and (b) you might get your shop windows broken or your motorbike or taxi or car torched, which makes a day off work sound like an extra good idea.<br />
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Unless, of course, you're a rickshaw wallah or a porter, in which case your work load increases. Sometimes literally.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhy9vMP6MAVYYNnETa7FFRpvw-ITX8OrZz3xk0oQLPTO01ibdVfHsAn7tRW2yk09HmvbDbKpHisLia3eZdvYzYAkMmhCv6PADQACrXTe_cKhNsDZBdcwJyUXrcEhGHNnlqAhXLZ7nHzSg0/s1600/WSJ+photo+man+with+sofa.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img alt="" border="0" height="424" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhy9vMP6MAVYYNnETa7FFRpvw-ITX8OrZz3xk0oQLPTO01ibdVfHsAn7tRW2yk09HmvbDbKpHisLia3eZdvYzYAkMmhCv6PADQACrXTe_cKhNsDZBdcwJyUXrcEhGHNnlqAhXLZ7nHzSg0/s640/WSJ+photo+man+with+sofa.jpg" title="Carrying sofa during strike, photo grabbed from Wall Street Journal" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Porter carries sofa on a bandh day. Note the high number of rickshaws, <br />and also the not-very-intimidated motorbike. Of course porters work like this on other days, too, <br />but sticking a sofa on a taxi or truck generally isn't an option during bandhs.</i></td></tr>
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The current Bandh has been called by the Dash Maoists, who ...<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgg6J20YMWMeNo8TtP4w3gnIt_5QX651k6D6vodSSCABKzUr-TYaM8MmmMMestkG5xY9n-Xt667-zM73WPwthdRx0bB7m_DJbQRh4EfIFsqagdI2IuErQ4I_jRLZo83AzYK9F2diwPBM6I/s1600/danger__will_robinson__by_brodiehbrockie-d4oumas.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgg6J20YMWMeNo8TtP4w3gnIt_5QX651k6D6vodSSCABKzUr-TYaM8MmmMMestkG5xY9n-Xt667-zM73WPwthdRx0bB7m_DJbQRh4EfIFsqagdI2IuErQ4I_jRLZo83AzYK9F2diwPBM6I/s200/danger__will_robinson__by_brodiehbrockie-d4oumas.jpg" title="Danger, Will Robinson. If you're culturally deprived and don't know Lost in Space, google it now." width="144" /></a></div>
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<b><span style="color: red; font-size: large;">WARNING! WARNING! </span></b></div>
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<b><span style="color: red; font-size: large;">NEPALI POLITICS EXPLANATION! </span></b></div>
<b><br /></b><span style="background-color: white;">... are a splinter group that broke off from the main Maoists and now call themselves the <b>Communist Party of Nepal-Maoist</b>, which is confusing because the party they broke with is the <b>United Communist Party of Nepal </b>and still another party is the <b>Communist Party of Nepal (United Marxist Leninist)</b>. </span><span style="background-color: white;">You'd see red just trying to sort it out. And that's before you get into the dozens of little parties. </span><br />
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; orphans: auto; text-align: left; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;">
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<span style="background-color: white;">At any rate, their name has a dash, so they're called the Dash Maoists (<i>Dash Maobadi)</i> to set them apart from the Cash Maoists <i>(Cash Maobadi),</i> who include the main leaders from the insurgency who went into the government and presumably pocketed a lot of loot. </span><span style="background-color: white;">You can read all about it in </span><span style="color: red;"><a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2013/11/07/world/asia/in-fractured-nepal-plans-for-national-elections-provide-a-series-of-subplots.html?_r=0"><span style="color: red;">this article from the New York Times,</span></a> </span><span style="background-color: white;">wherein the wife of the leader of the Cash Maoists cheerfully admits to their reputation as shakedown artists. Incidentally, they're said to be called "Cashists" and "Dashists" by the Times, which rhymes nicely and is less unwieldy in journalese</span><i>, </i><span style="background-color: white;">but if you google it, you'll find the term "Cash Maoists" gets all the hits and "Cashist" and "Dashist" are just found in a few measly pages, which point back to the New York Times. Good article. But when the New York Times checks my blog, </span><i>I want an explanation. With sources. </i><span style="background-color: white;">Ahem.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white;">Anyway, yesterday was Episode Three of the Ten-Day Mega-Bandh Directed by George Lucas. My day started with drum banging and music from a long line of Cash Maoists outside as they wound through the area politicking, since they actually <i>are </i>participating in the election that the Dash Maoists and their coalition of 33 supporting parties are boycotting for various reasons (some of them rather sensible, actually, but I won't get into it).</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiip5SX1QsisGd4Mk6Agis5ncE-YDscJq3RmPcYwELIvHRb6JtY6BOd6m2zUI_lAPzntYxFZsDO0cyR8hk_3G9PeD864BV2h_FXZL4GTzIVr0HiE1dj5m2q3QMX8hNW5P3qw9MGWfXtrwk/s1600/MDG--Maoist-campaigning-i-008.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiip5SX1QsisGd4Mk6Agis5ncE-YDscJq3RmPcYwELIvHRb6JtY6BOd6m2zUI_lAPzntYxFZsDO0cyR8hk_3G9PeD864BV2h_FXZL4GTzIVr0HiE1dj5m2q3QMX8hNW5P3qw9MGWfXtrwk/s400/MDG--Maoist-campaigning-i-008.jpg" title="Maoists campaigning; the guys who came through our neighborhood (but photo grabbed from New York Times). My excuse is that my husband had kept the camera in the car. Next time I want to take video with sound. Love the drums." width="400" /></a></td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: white;">This turned out not to be the only noise during the bandh. The other noises were the beeping and honking of traffic.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white;">Motorbikes. Taxis. Even public transport like micros and buses.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white;">When I got to the chowk in our 'hood, it was being circled by scores of motorbikes going round and round and waving flags of Nepali Congress, one of the few major parties that does not have "Communist" in its name, <i>zooooooom zooooooom take THAT you Dash Maoists, we're out here on our motorbikes, weeeeee!, </i>and after that came lots of cars with Congress flags waving from the windows, <i>nyanyanyanyanya.</i></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white;">Meanwhile, business owners drove their cars around the city to bravely show defiance in an anti-bandh rally, which had the unfortunate effect of clogging the traffic that wasn't supposed to be there. It seems that, as <i>Republica </i>reports in the wonderfully headlined article <a href="http://www.myrepublica.com/portal/index.php?action=news_details&news_id=64490"><span style="color: red;">Life Normal in Capital, 10 Arrested,</span></a> "the transport strike was foiled after laborers of the lower class and communities themselves started the services."</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white;">There's a radical notion. Rebel! Revolt! Power to the People! LET'S GO TO WORK!</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white;">Of course, there was another factor involved. The government had promised compensation for anyone whose vehicle was destroyed in the bandh, and somehow there were a surprising number of cruddy taxis and even buses (the cruddiest ones) on the road. <i>Burn mine! Hey, burn mine! It's REALLY valuable!</i></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="background-color: white;">So my husband, who like many people (including the "laborers of the lower class and communities") had decided to just go about his business as usual, and also to do it by car (heck, we wouldn't mind a brand-new car either), got stuck in a traffic jam caused by a protest against the lack of traffic.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white;">Nevertheless, my son's school has closed down for a week. Maybe it's secretly a teacher's strike. The Teenager is not as happy as you'd think, given that it means Homework By Internet and also School on Sundays for a Month afterwards. </span><span style="background-color: white;">Turns out school in Nepal isn't that different from homeschool after all. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="background-color: white;">The Alleged 10-Day Strike will continue through the election next week, which will also cause its own shut-downs. All of which is well-timed to follow a month of festival-related shut-downs. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white;">So what's really happening out there? And how do we know? Well, we can check the news online, which I have helpfully screen-captured for posterity:</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://news.google.com/news/section?pz=1&cf=all&ned=us&hl=en&csid=4838b76cb51f6381" style="color: black; text-decoration: none;">Nepal »</a></span></h2>
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<a class="article usg-AFQjCNESXExFASJbkrpSXn_PLtc4ElXZxQ did-8007110901416006289" href="http://timesofindia.indiatimes.com/world/south-asia/Nepal-strike-passes-off-peacefully/articleshow/25609989.cms" id="MAA4AEgPUABgAWoCdXM" style="color: #1155cc; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank" url="http://timesofindia.indiatimes.com/world/south-asia/Nepal-strike-passes-off-peacefully/articleshow/25609989.cms"><b>Nepal</b> strike passes off peacefully</a></h2>
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KATHMANDU: A strike called to oppose the November 19 elections in Nepal went off peacefully even as traffic stayed off the roads and businesses were shuttered across the country.</div>
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<a class="article usg-AFQjCNGj9dxcwBKHbdILzfMnWri0M-mJsg did--1392243222507686193" href="http://www.aljazeera.com/news/asia/2013/11/nepal-opposition-called-strike-turns-violent-2013111113525952206.html" id="MAA4AEgQUABgAWoCdXM" style="color: #1155cc; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank" url="http://www.aljazeera.com/news/asia/2013/11/nepal-opposition-called-strike-turns-violent-2013111113525952206.html"><b>Nepal</b> opposition-called strike turns violent</a></h2>
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Dozens of Maoist activists were arrested as a general strike brought Nepal to a virtual standstill amid sporadic violence aimed at disrupting next week's elections.</div>
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<br />
<br />
OK, I give up.<br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span>
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Monsoon Rose http://www.blogger.com/profile/00999328889578835210noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8324143663561756372.post-53510704936856379122013-11-05T12:44:00.000+05:452013-12-16T08:01:17.274+05:45The Deushi Bhailo Sing-Along Cheat Sheet<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
Right now the nights are filled with song, because it's Tihar, the festival of the goddess of wealth, and people are out there working to get some of it. Remember that line in "Here We Come A-Wassailing" about "give us some figgy pudding, we won't go until we get some"? Well, Tihar singers won't go until they get their money. And it has to be the amount they want. It's as if trick-or-treaters stood outside making ghost and princess and Elmo noises until you gave them the whole bag of candy.<br />
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Whatever Lord-of-Misrule edginess used to exist in caroling and wassailing and trick-or-treating has long been scrubbed in the West into good clean well-regulated fun, but here in Nepal the spirit survives with raucous and extortionary enthusiasm in the tradition of Deushi Bhailo, a house-to-house songfest by mobs of makeshift minstrels armed with drums, dance moves and loud voices.<br />
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Many groups also come armed with electric guitars and amplifiers and Bollywood-meets-Michael Jackson dance moves, which they perform to pop music blasting from sound systems. You can tell these groups because they're <i>really big, </i>and they're often raising money for A Cause, such as their picnic later on. But I'm glad to report that traditional <i>a capella </i>Bhailo is still going strong, and that so far this year, we've mostly been feted by Bhailo-ites who are singing, drumming and strumming their own guitars with out-of-tune zeal. It's neighborhood music, by ordinary people, and sometimes we can hear two or three groups at once and it's great. (I exempt from praise the wedding band that showed up at nearly midnight and went bleeting and blooping around the neighborhood. That wasn't Bhailo. That was torture.)<br />
<br />
I'll write a bit about Tihar and what it's really about in another post, and how we celebrate it in the village, which we sadly are not doing this year thanks to a kid's camping trip (fun) and a last-minute car breakdown (not fun). But for the moment, here's something on Deushi Bhailo, complete with a cheat sheet for anyone in Nepal and who is getting assaulted in Sensurround by people singing what sounds like EH BABA WAWA DO-SHEE-RAY! Next time they come, you can sing along. Or if you're hiding inside so they can't see you, you can whisper along.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6-pKKQjVLHjtmmSiOlRA-euaVs2-RsypxH3pSjc5xNBnDeFyBRAKNs4u_vaHGuyzgFPNCl6AZC4XkljDWWMUPQ8Hpfg3ydK4mzl_GAO7puW_sXWHNfqbv6KP7FYxtYzFrllPcuhuvILY/s1600/PB030607.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6-pKKQjVLHjtmmSiOlRA-euaVs2-RsypxH3pSjc5xNBnDeFyBRAKNs4u_vaHGuyzgFPNCl6AZC4XkljDWWMUPQ8Hpfg3ydK4mzl_GAO7puW_sXWHNfqbv6KP7FYxtYzFrllPcuhuvILY/s400/PB030607.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;"><i>Oil lamps on our balcony during Tihar, Festival of Lights. They're<br />supposed to welcome Laxmi, goddess of abundance. They also draw<br />Bhailo singers like helicopter-sized moths to the flame.</i></td></tr>
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In Deushi Bhailo, neither the repertoire nor the lyrics are set in stone (although you'd probably appreciate a handy stone if you're getting Bhailo'd by a group with a sound system and bad pop music. Actually I deal with this, in the village, by telling them that if they want money, they're going to have to make the music themselves, because if the music can be canned I'll bring out <i>my </i>music, and I'll dance to my music, and then I'll charge them to watch me dance to my music. Because, well, what's the difference? Thus I single-handedly champion the live music folk tradition and entertain them by being a crazy foreigner. Two good deeds at once.)<br />
<br />
But at some point, if it's an <i>a capella </i>Bhailo, the singers generally launch into a mish-mash of disconnected traditional verses that praise and bless the homeowners, tell them how much trouble the singers had getting to the house, and can be stretched out as long as possible until the homeowners emerge from hiding and deliver the hush money.<br />
<br />
Some of it can also be made up on the spot, like a folk rap. And there are regional variants; in our family's area (the midwest terai and adjacent hills), the refrain of "Bhailo" is sung by men and "Deushire" by women, while in Kathmandu, it seems to be the reverse. Since both genders do Bhailo but men tend to do it in greater and rowdier numbers, this means that what we hear all night, if we're in the village, is BHAI-EE-LO! while in Kathmandu we're hearing DEU-SHI-RE!<br />
<br />
It's done as a call-and-response, with the main singer delivering the lines and the whole group answering with the refrain (which is largely meaningless or has lost its meaning as far as most people seem to be concerned.) Here's a transcription of the basic <i>Deushire</i>, complete with a Nepali version of <i>we are not daily beggars who go from door to door. </i>In practice, the verses are mix-and-match and can change on the spot, and are limited only by the Bhailo players' imaginations and how much time they have before the homeowners hand over the loot.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b><i>Deushire </i></b></span><br />
<br />
<i>deushire bhana </i><i>(</i><i>deushire!) </i><i> </i> देउशिरे भन देउशिरे !<br />
<i>ramrari bhana </i><i>(</i><i>deushire!) </i> राम्ररी भन देउशिरे !<br />
<i>yo ghara ka </i><i>(</i><i>deushire!) </i>यो घरका देउशिरे !<br />
<i>gharadhani </i><i>(</i><i>deushire!)</i><i> </i> घरधनी देउशिरे !<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>Deushire, say Deushire! </b><b>Say it well!</b></span><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">To the owner of the house, deushire!</span></b><br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<i>dubo jhain </i><i>(</i><i>deushire!) </i> दूबो झैँ देउशिरे !<br />
<i>gajai jaon </i><i>(</i><i>deushire!) </i><i> </i> गजाइ जाउन देउशिरे !<br />
<i>santana le </i><i>(</i><i>deushire!) </i><i> </i> सन्तानले देउशिरे !<br />
<i>danda kanda </i><i>(</i><i>deushire!) </i><i> </i><i> </i> डाँडा काँडा देउशिरे !<br />
<i>dhakuna hai </i><i>(</i><i>deushire!) </i><i> </i> ढा कु न् है देउशिरे !<br />
<br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">May its offspring sprawl like dubo grass,</span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">Covering every hill</span></b><br />
<br />
[note: dubo grass has an extensive and sprawling root system, hence the reference]<br />
<br />
<i>yo ghara ka </i><i>(</i><i>deushire!) </i><i> </i><i> </i>यो घरका देउशिरे !<br />
<i>gharadhani </i><i>(</i><i>deushire!) </i> घरधनी देउशिरे !<br />
<i>bansa jhai </i><i>(</i><i>deushire!) </i> बाँस झैँ देउशिरे !<br />
<i>nuhi jaun </i><i>(</i><i>deushire!) </i><i> </i> नुही जाउन देउशिरे !<br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></b>
<b><span style="font-size: large;">May the owners of this house </span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">Live to be ancient, </span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">Stooped like bamboo</span></b><br />
<br />
<i>raato maato </i><i>(</i><i>deushire!) </i><i> </i>रातो माटो देउशिरे !<br />
<i>chiplo baato </i><i>(</i><i>deushire!) </i><i> </i> चिप्लो बाटो देउशिरे !<br />
<i>lardai pardai </i><i>(</i><i>deushire!) </i><i> </i> लड्दै पड्दै देउशिरे !<br />
<i>aeka hami </i><i>(</i><i>deushire!) </i><i> </i>आएका हामी देउशिरे !<br />
<i><br /></i>
<b><span style="font-size: large;">Red mud, slippery road </span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">Slipping and falling, we have come</span></b><br />
<br />
<i>tessai hami (</i><i>deushire!) </i> तेसै हामी देउशिरे !<br />
<i>magna aeka </i><i> (</i><i>deushire!) </i> माग्न आएका देउशिरे !<br />
<i>hoinaun hai </i><i> (</i><i>deushire!) </i> होइनौ है देउशिरे !<br />
<i>Balirajale </i><i> (</i><i>deushire!) </i> बलिराजाले देउशिरे !<br />
<i>pathaera </i><i> (</i><i>deushire!) </i>पठाएर देउशिरे !<br />
<i>aeka haun (deushire!) </i> आएका हौँ देउशिरे !<br />
<i><br /></i>
<b><span style="font-size: large;">We haven't come just to beg,</span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">We came because Baliraja sent us </span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></b>
[Baliraja is a character said to have been so insanely generous and proud of his wealth that Vishnu eventually had to concoct a clever plan to kick him out of heaven and down to the underworld, where he visits him every month of Karthik. Which is now. So FYI, Vishnu is currently on holiday. If Baliraja sent the Bhailo players ... well, that's "good" like a white elephant is good. The homeowner had better ante up.]<br />
<br />
<i>yo ghar katro (deushire!) </i>यो घर कत्रो देउशिरे !<br />
<div>
<i>Singha Durbar jatro </i><i>(deushire!) </i> सिंहदरबार जत्रो देउशिरे !<br />
<i>agan katro </i><i>(deushire!) </i>आँगन कत्रो देउशिरे !<br />
<i>Tundikhel jatro </i><i>(deushire!) </i> टुंडिखेल जत्रो देउशिरे !</div>
<br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">How big is this house?</span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">As big as Singha Durbar!</span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">How big is its courtyard?</span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">As big as Tundikhel!</span></b><br />
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[This version may be specific to Kathmandu, with the local references to Singha Durbar, a vast old palace and seat of government, and the Tundihkel parade ground at the center of town, a kind of flat, scruffy Central Park. In our family's village the house would be simply "as big as a palace" and the courtyard as big as some local landmark.]<br />
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<i>jhilimili kati </i><i>(</i><i>deushire!) </i><i> </i> झिलिमिली कति देउशिरे !</div>
<i>keko jhilimili </i><i>(</i><i>deushire!) </i><i> </i>केको झिलिमिली देउशिरे !<br />
<i>bhatti ko jhilimili (deushire!) </i>बत्तीको झिलिमिली देउशिरे !<br />
<i>phul ko jhilimili (deushire!) </i> फूलको झिलिमिली देउशिरे !<br />
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">So very glittery!</span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">What makes it glittery?</span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">It's glittery with lights,</span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">It's glittery with flowers</span></b><br />
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[It's also glittery, of course, because Tihar is The Festival of Lights, and houses are covered with lights and doors garlanded with flowers.]<br />
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And then there are some great ones, like this one we heard last night:<br />
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<i>syau ko rukh ma </i><i>(</i><i>deushire!) </i><i> </i> स्याउको रूखमा देउशिरे !<br />
<i>amba ni phaldaina </i><i>(</i><i>deushire!) </i> अम्बा नि फल्दैन देउशिरे !<br />
<i>saya ko note le </i><i>(</i><i>deushire!) </i><i> </i> सयको नोटले देउशिरे !<br />
<i>hami lai chaldaina </i><i>(</i><i>deushire!) </i> हामीलाई चल्दैन देउशिरे !<br />
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">You can't get guavas from an apple tree, </span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">And a hundred-rupee note won't work for us!</span></b><br />
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<i><span style="color: blue;">With a note of thanks to my long-suffering husband who helped me wade through the lyrics and did his best to make sure the Nepali spelling is correct. </span></i><br />
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For anyone who has never had the joy of getting Bhailo'd (and maybe some who have), I've been looking for video of real, ordinary, door-to-door Deushi Bhailo to show what I'm talking about.<br />
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<i>Update: I was just sent this YouTube video, which isn't exactly traditional, but it's great stuff from Jazzmandu 2013. Enjoy the Nepali reggae Deushire from about 3' 35", and on into a blazing hot Cuban version. Taste the sel roti global special! Very musically jhilimili.</i><br />
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<b>Global Groovin' with a Fusion Deushi Bhailo at Jazzmandu:</b></h3>
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<i>Update No. 2: </i><i>Late last night, three guys and a drum came by the house in a straggling effort to wring the last rupee out of the holidays, and I recorded this (audio only. Well, it was late. It DID look that dark.). It's a traditional Deushire with the lyrics above, more or less. Sadly I stopped recording just before our neighbor started yelling at them. </i><br />
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Traditional-Style Kathmandu Deushire by 3 Guys and a Drum:</h3>
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Monsoon Rose http://www.blogger.com/profile/00999328889578835210noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8324143663561756372.post-28224815662771428522013-11-03T13:24:00.000+05:452013-12-18T11:57:14.350+05:45Happy Worship Your Dog Day. Where's the Shampoo?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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If you were a dog and it was your festival day, wouldn't you start it by having a nice roll in a big steaming pile of fetid food rot and composted poo mush and unidentified green stench? If my dog had a Facebook page, her status update would say, "I stink!"<br />
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It would also say, "Happy Kukur Tihar, all my dog friends. Weren't you impressed today with how nicely I stank? Is there a better way to celebrate a day on which we, the dogs of Nepal, are worshiped for our essential dogginess?"<br />
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Kathmandu is full of dogs. In addition to households dogs, there are an estimated 20,000 dogs living on the street. Those aren't strays, which implies they strayed <i>from </i>somewhere. They're born and live on the street, though many do adopt a house (or a meat shop or a temple where people offer food to the gods) and hang out around it, patrolling it and hopefully getting tossed scraps for their trouble.<br />
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Our dog Sandy began life as one of them. She was born on the streets and followed our son home in iconic fashion as a small pup, about three weeks after we'd moved to Nepal. Actually he'd gone out to do "homeschool Animal Science research" (translation: feed a pack of dogs), and discovered in his research that if you feed dogs, they'll all<i> </i>follow you home in a wagging shoving mob. Sandy, always adventurous, was first to venture through the gate. She's a classic Indian Pariah Dog, a dingo-like critter with a curly tail, barrel chest and a vocal range that sounds like singing. The local dogs of South Asia are landrace or "primitive dogs," which means they're not formal breeds but self-selected survivors of the earliest types of dogs, much as you might have seen in Pompeii or Ancient Egypt.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>This guy is either doing his morning exercise or yawning after a sleepness night filled with dog barking</i></td></tr>
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<span style="text-align: left;">The status of dogs in Nepal can sometimes be quite sad. That's true for owned dogs as well as street dogs, sometimes more so, because at least street dogs are free while owned dogs are often chained all day. Below is a street dog (though I've seen owned dogs that skinny), now cared for at <span style="color: red;"><a href="http://animalnepal.wordpress.com/about/"><span style="color: red;">Animal Nepal</span></a>,</span> an animal welfare non-profit where my son volunteers. Further north, good work is done by <span style="color: red;"><a href="http://www.katcentre.org.np/"><span style="color: red;">KAT Centre (Kathmandu Animal</span> <span style="color: red;">Treatment Centre)</span></a>. </span></span></div>
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But every year the dogs of Nepal are king and queen for a day, when well-loved companions and chained guard dogs and street dogs alike are feted with food, garlands and prayer. I'm sure there are various explanations out there in WebLand, but what people really say when you ask "why do you worship dogs?" is pretty simple: They're the best friends of people. It's often said that dogs become people in their next lives. So you can think of them as Almost People.<br />
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In conversation, people tend to connect the dog festival to a beautiful story about the great warrior Yudhisthira, who after his victory in the epic Trojan War-like battles of the Mahabharata made the arduous journey over the Himalayas to the home of the gods, accompanied by his dog and his brothers. During the journey, his brothers proved to be good guys but not <i>that </i>good, and Hindus come down on the Works side of the Faith vs. Works debate, so the good-but-flawed brothers died along the way, like this:<br />
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When Yudhisthira finally got to heaven, only he and his dog were left. They were met at the gates by Indra, the god of rain and thunder. "What do you mean, coming to our home with this dog? You can't enter heaven unless you give up your darned dog."<br />
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"No," said the brave Yudhisthira, "my dog has been loyal to me, so I have to be loyal to him. I guess I'll go ... wherever I go if I don't get into heaven. Back for another round on the wheel."<br />
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And then Indra revealed that it had all been a test, and he had passed. The dog, in fact, was actually Yudhisthira's own father, Dharma, who had been with him all along.<br />
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Notice the curly tail on Yudhisthira's dog (a.k.a Dad in Disguise.) Curled tails are such a common feature on South Asian dogs that the letter <span style="font-size: x-large;">ढ</span> (<i>dha) </i>is memorized in school with the chant <i>"kukur puchhure dha,"</i> or "dog-tailed dha," because it curls like a dog's tail.<br />
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Back to Almost Heaven, Kathmandu, where the dogs have been having their festival. If you live here, you're probably thinking, "What, don't they have a festival every day? What else could all that barking be?" Because the sound of Kathmandu at night goes like this:<br />
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<i>silence ... somebody hawking and spitting on the street ...</i> BARK? <span style="font-size: large;">BARK!</span> BARK <span style="font-size: large;">BARK </span><span style="font-size: x-small;">yip yip </span><span style="font-size: large;">WHOOF </span>ME TOO<span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-size: x-large;">BARK</span> <span style="font-size: large;">ME TOO </span><span style="font-size: x-large;">ME TOO</span> .......... <i>silence ......... silence </i>............. <span style="font-size: large;">BARK? </span>BARK. <span style="font-size: large;">BARK! </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>bark</b></span> <span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">bark</span> <span style="font-size: large;"><b>BARK</b> </span><span style="font-size: xx-small;">BARK</span> BARK<span style="font-size: large;"> BARK </span><span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>BARK!</b></span><br />
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The 20,000 voices of Dogmandu. If you come to Nepal, it helps to either appreciate dogs in harmony or have a quick exit plan.<br />
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I'm in the Appreciating camp. One of the coolest aspects of daily life here is the chance to observe dogs in a more natural setting than the First World, where they're Well-Bred and Properly Regulated and stay inside glued to their TVs and don't get to roam and interact freely, so that even observers like Alexandra Horowitz, the author of the fascinating <span style="color: red;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Inside-Dog-What-Dogs-Smell/dp/1416583432"><span style="color: red;">Inside of a Dog: What Dogs See, Smell and</span> <span style="color: red;">Know</span></a>,</span> have to draw conclusions about dog-to-dog interactions by going to a dog park. That's like trying to figure out people by observing them at cocktail parties with their bosses present.<br />
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On my daily walks with Sandy, I've learned the territories of the local dogs, can see how they form alliances, and watch the interplay of personality and status. Sandy is an amiable type, always game for fun; after all, she was first through the gate as a pup (which worked out well for her personally, though not so much from a perpetuation-of-the-genes standpoint, since she got "fixed.") She seems to be a "leader" without being alpha; perhaps dogs, like people, can be taken as leaders in part because they're just nice and fun. Sandy tends to run at the head of a pack with other dogs following, but she's also very quick to roll on her back and show her belly. So leadership isn't all about toughness.<br />
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This is how she spent her Annual Day to be Worshiped. The day began as always, by meeting up in our yard with her BFF Khoire, the dog-that-adopted-our-landlady's-house. Her name means "brownie" or "mangy," depending on pronunciation. She's blind in one eye, and it took her about three months to come close to me, and even longer to warm up to Sandy. They had a big fight and Sandy still has a scar from it and now they love each other. Also Khoire is now addicted to belly rubs.<br />
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Then off to the wall across the lane to meet Saibo. He has another name, too: Chocolate-y. When "Saibo" doesn't work to call him, they resort to "Chocolate-y." Nepali dogs are great at climbing walls. This is Saibo a.k.a. Chocolate-y on his wall, displaying the classic Pariah Dog pointy ears and, of course, a lovely <i>malla </i>(flower garland) and <i>tika </i>(vermilion powder) because he has already been worshiped. Even his paws are powdered.</div>
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<i style="text-align: left;">Hey Khoire and Saibo. Come on down and play. Oh I love you guys, you are my very best friends!</i></div>
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<i>Harumph. I'm here too. Behind the wall. I act like I live here in Saibo's nice yard, but actually I'm just a big macho bruiser and go where I please. And where I please is Saibo's yard. He isn't as big as me, so he doesn't disagree. </i><i>And somebody worshiped me today, too, because they'd better. I've got an agreement with Saibo -- you don't kick me out, I don't beat you up, and also I won't tell other dogs you're called "Chocolate-y" -- and I'm OK with dames like Sandy, although somehow she never comes into heat. What's up with that? </i><i>That Valuable German Shepherd at Sandy's house came into heat and the owners locked her in a cage but <b>I GOT IN</b> and they found me in the cage with her in the morning, bwahaha. </i><i>So the gals are OK. And Saibo, because he knows his place. Which is mine now. But I HATE Sisumanu from down the lane. Do not come into my turf, Sisumanu. </i><br />
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<i>Here comes Sisumanu, to play with Sandy and Khoire. Better watch out for Nameless Bruiser.</i></div>
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<i>Hmmm. This looks like a nice place. Lots of trash around. </i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKtz6uL68XExZPuriMgh0f6B4qsJKBH2olHMFX0HwB7NufNJKX2tZxopZkOUGJx6YCJzZ2IFNHL4GU9tUoWUQj9wJTurYYPgPZSm1GIxMpWm9T3ot8HRkrb7GxUX7ac5KuKylZ_PfVdR8/s1600/PB010566.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="397" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKtz6uL68XExZPuriMgh0f6B4qsJKBH2olHMFX0HwB7NufNJKX2tZxopZkOUGJx6YCJzZ2IFNHL4GU9tUoWUQj9wJTurYYPgPZSm1GIxMpWm9T3ot8HRkrb7GxUX7ac5KuKylZ_PfVdR8/s400/PB010566.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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<i>Hey, I've got a great idea. This is WAY more fun than something Nameless Bruiser would come up with. Let's make a mad dash for the other side of the field here ...</i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj09fZf9Iq2VCGDyMeW0r5BihtRVyfS4ogB4AWlaq9dJeoPcMsyK44peTXOyVPMAqMZpLPdtu4JqRiy2wh1PI7xjB9sWsPAGrPy8oMsFmytcm9C4X8oPuqve8CXEsofHKnujkw5MnX3zV0/s1600/PB010578.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="251" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj09fZf9Iq2VCGDyMeW0r5BihtRVyfS4ogB4AWlaq9dJeoPcMsyK44peTXOyVPMAqMZpLPdtu4JqRiy2wh1PI7xjB9sWsPAGrPy8oMsFmytcm9C4X8oPuqve8CXEsofHKnujkw5MnX3zV0/s400/PB010578.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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... <i>and roll in a STINKY COMPOST HEAP that makes us smell like fetid puke!</i></div>
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Of which I have no pictures. Because I was too busy blocking my nose. A stinky dog covered with green slime is all the more exciting on a day when there is no water in the house, because it's Kathmandu and there is often no water, so it was shampoo + a single bucket of water dribbles + many non-worshipful comments.</div>
So my advice to dogs is this: Watch out for that whole plan about becoming a human in your next life. You might get your wish. And then, someday, <i>you'll </i>be cleaning rot-scented green slime off a dog when there's no water. See how you like it.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQj4uKYlNlObeq2Lwlf6fVi_nqIX1ZdiYsWE8Bc2yjTKGkEgk5TW7xC1WtwOadnYDsd2Ns7LBa_sGq4ZNXtEy-I29z1vufQ1vm6s4cO2hcHRFeCjGyQRL9cFU0kT-RRjOjJ9vv68xalrc/s1600/PB020591.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQj4uKYlNlObeq2Lwlf6fVi_nqIX1ZdiYsWE8Bc2yjTKGkEgk5TW7xC1WtwOadnYDsd2Ns7LBa_sGq4ZNXtEy-I29z1vufQ1vm6s4cO2hcHRFeCjGyQRL9cFU0kT-RRjOjJ9vv68xalrc/s400/PB020591.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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<i>I'm sorry. Was I bad? Yet somehow I still got my Worshipful Garland and Worshipful Vermilion Powder to show what a Worshipful Dog I am. The very embodiment of love, loyalty and joy. Including joy in stinkiness. Can I go out with my friends again? This shampoo smells kind of weird and I know just how to fix it.</i><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>Happy Kukur Tihar!</b></span></div>
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Monsoon Rose http://www.blogger.com/profile/00999328889578835210noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8324143663561756372.post-30947756913892300722013-10-20T00:05:00.001+05:452013-11-17T08:38:26.006+05:45A Not-So-Final Ending for a Goddess (With Bonus: Cute Kids!)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTwnneYK2bJIufpBHEyaNBgpFz12v311SqXqkeqCpBAhKYjeeJhQiuFW_ujPC67W3H4MVy2Fb1vgo2gQDbEHMgNkSqQfMLbL1BXt8bZtSn630SCv6tln6j5YwsRQgQA6iuoJ0fCqofnqk/s1600/PA130232.JPG" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTwnneYK2bJIufpBHEyaNBgpFz12v311SqXqkeqCpBAhKYjeeJhQiuFW_ujPC67W3H4MVy2Fb1vgo2gQDbEHMgNkSqQfMLbL1BXt8bZtSn630SCv6tln6j5YwsRQgQA6iuoJ0fCqofnqk/s640/PA130232.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguVvr94In_af6xbmqUSvMWI9qQwJKbiVW6MaclyLsip1VLJiNgbgC3rn9dduSVTPVrV3H6D5GfykUIR9dJ17CZXr7OCEWgExflhXYcMDy2uvaPIUatI_xY-qUySmbuxh_6T7uXddcBjKY/s1600/PA150456.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="230" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguVvr94In_af6xbmqUSvMWI9qQwJKbiVW6MaclyLsip1VLJiNgbgC3rn9dduSVTPVrV3H6D5GfykUIR9dJ17CZXr7OCEWgExflhXYcMDy2uvaPIUatI_xY-qUySmbuxh_6T7uXddcBjKY/s320/PA150456.JPG" width="320" /></a>Ah, Dashain. A time for kids, goats and goddesses. And photos, of course. Particularly when we go to our in-laws' village, where I get to pretend I work for National Geographic.<br />
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But ... well ... one of the cool things about village life is that it's rustic, and rustic means "not so much electricity," which is richly atmospheric and good for the soul but not so good for camera batteries. (Oh, our village <i>has </i>electricity. It came about 10 years ago. That doesn't mean it's around when needed. Much, come to think of it, like Kathmandu.)<br />
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As a result, when the streets filled with indigenous Tharu girls with ceremonial vessels on their heads and people chanting and throwing colored powder as they pulled a larger-than-life statue of the goddess Durga through rain-soaked lanes, my camera died. I bet that doesn't happen at National Geographic.<br />
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So you'll have to take my word for it that Dashain came to a splashing end with a wild flash-mob wiggling snake line as hundreds of people did a barefoot dervish squish-dance in the mud all the way to the river, where the Goddess was worshipped with incense and song by Tharu women and I felt the ancient power of Woman's Spirit in Creating Civilization from Chaos before a batch of men dragged her into the water and floated her away. Glub. I'm trying to figure out the significance of this.<br />
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Yet, sadly, I can't show it, or the moment when my teenager's feet got sucked into the quicksand-like mud on the riverbank and he stood there flailing while Durga was towed past him by a chanting mob, or a few minutes later when I got my karmic comeuppance for laughing at his predicament and I got stuck too, but actually IN the river, and those girls above with the pots enjoyed themselves as I tried to pull out of the sucking flooping muck that had suddenly become like a pair of cement shoes courtesy of Tony Soprano, <i>so ya tried to cross us didja, well go sing with the fishes, </i>all without toppling into the water (which is not good when you're wearing cement shoes) ...<br />
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Come to think of it, that might not have been the best place for a camera anyway.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhzk5LjD8pR1YyueXECNbyCDU1KvXDnNuXGwzKxyo13i1CNY6MgQlPuDhAc9FP__d65Uzj5tE36qxpiK7tXupos1s1j59fA2McRW8LponoiDYQUt_BpPLeWjQffY8UilkcgbnBmb3BkLM/s1600/PA120109.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhzk5LjD8pR1YyueXECNbyCDU1KvXDnNuXGwzKxyo13i1CNY6MgQlPuDhAc9FP__d65Uzj5tE36qxpiK7tXupos1s1j59fA2McRW8LponoiDYQUt_BpPLeWjQffY8UilkcgbnBmb3BkLM/s400/PA120109.JPG" width="300" /></a><br />
But I'll make up for it with other pictures. Like this one, which was the absolute best Durga I found. I swear she's giving the demon a spanking. Dude, do not cross the primordial mother. Even when she's stuck in the mud.<br />
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Of course, the Goddesses all end up in the muddy river afterwards, at least (see <a href="http://singingdogsinthewildguavapatch.blogspot.com/2013/10/dashain-is-coming-so-are-zombies-i.html"><span style="color: red;">Multicultural Disclaimer from previous post</span></a>) among <i>certain </i>groups in <i>our particular area </i>of Nepal. The holy immersing (permanently) of thousands upon thousands of Durgas with their weaponry, lions, buffaloes and vanquished demons can be problematic for the environment, as reported<span style="color: red;"> <a href="http://timesofindia.indiatimes.com/home/environment/pollution/Idol-immersion-pollutes-Ganga/articleshow/24220624.cms"><span style="color: red;">here (from Patna)</span></a></span> and <a href="http://www.deccanchronicle.com/131017/news-current-affairs/article/immersion-idols-festival-waste-polluting-lakes-hyderabad"><span style="color: red;">here (from Hyderabad)</span></a> and <a href="http://www.business-standard.com/article/news-ians/durga-puja-ends-in-bengal-with-idol-immersion-113101400206_1.html"><span style="color: red;">here (from West Bengal)</span></a> by journalists who work harder than me.<br />
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Also a submerged Warrior Goddess Durga surfaced like a U-Boat while my son was swimming in a lake the next day and nearly torpedoed him. Remember, guys, she's a warrior goddess. She will return. Watch out if you go in the water right now. It's Jaws Meets the Spanish Inquisition out there. Cue Monty Python: "No one expects the Goddess Durga!"<br />
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<span style="text-align: center;">The camera did work some of the time, though. And since holidays are a great time for kids, and these are such cute kids, here's a photo roundup. With, of course, educational context in case anyone who stumbled onto this blog needs it for a middle-school report. (Just remember the proper citation: "Too Lazy for Yoga." That will impress your teacher.) </span><br />
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<span style="text-align: center;">So here comes ...</span><br />
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The (Educational) Cute Kid Photo Show! </h3>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBs3t_eKjO1FaNxW7Rbe7WZ9mgR3va_AP-4iVjU74Faj-E-sEiT5VA8IOkpDrH1747K_6HLJx70whK_M8fRu5eec0ls5J3cTRk-awnlVdfK4WuhaR8E2zxVBUbexHdvrmgVvlp-XgQpWI/s1600/PA130201.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBs3t_eKjO1FaNxW7Rbe7WZ9mgR3va_AP-4iVjU74Faj-E-sEiT5VA8IOkpDrH1747K_6HLJx70whK_M8fRu5eec0ls5J3cTRk-awnlVdfK4WuhaR8E2zxVBUbexHdvrmgVvlp-XgQpWI/s400/PA130201.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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The girl above lives in a beautiful house covered with folk art in the Tharu village, home of the enthusiastic goddess dunkers, who are also the indigenous people of the area. (Traditionally<span style="color: red;"> <a href="http://www.himalmag.com/component/content/article/2929-The-origin-on-the-tharu.html"><span style="color: red;">forest dwellers of ancient and uncertain origin</span></a>,</span> they made good subjects for real NatGeo photographer<span style="color: red;"> <span style="color: red;"><span style="color: red;"><a href="http://www.ericvalli.com/index.php?/stories/tharu-/"><span style="color: red;">Eric Valli</span></a>).</span></span></span> It's the largest village around by population and is about a 5-minute walk through rice fields from my family's village, which is heavily <i>pahadia </i>(Nepali hill people). </div>
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Tharu speak a different language, but almost everyone in the area, from my old in-laws to the children, are multilingual in Nepali, Tharu and Awadhi (plus Bollywood Hindi and soap-opera Urdu.) This little girl below, also Tharu, is wearing a protective amulet around her neck. Either that or it's her secret language decoder ring. </div>
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The girls below live in my family's village, in a neighborhood called Kami Tol, whose residents belong to the blacksmith (Kami) caste. They're Dalit, the umbrella term for people known to Westerners as "Untouchables," and traditionally practiced occupational skills such as metalwork, tanning, tailoring and butchering. Labeling those skills as "low status" was probably not the best strategy for technological development over the centuries, but that's another issue in a complicated topic. They're Nepali-speaking <i>pahadia </i>(hill people) and are basically indistinguishable, physically and culturally, from other <i>pahadia. </i>The clue is the last name: If you're Dalit, your last name might be Kami, Sarki, Bishwokarma, Pariyar, or ironically, Nepali. If your last name is Smith, Cobbler or Taylor, join the ranks. Well, technically, all foreigners qualify. Sorry.</div>
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Dalit life has improved greatly in the last decades. In fact, the village's private English school is operated by a Dalit couple, so high-status kids go to a Dalit-run school. There's widespread recognition now that untouchability isn't an integral part of Hinduism, didn't exist in earliest times, and isn't exactly fair or just. Still, if you're born Dalit, you're<span style="color: red;"> <span style="color: red;"><a href="http://www.jagaranmedia.org.np/index.php?obj=who_are_dalits"><span style="color: red;">a whole lot like likelier to be poor</span></a>,</span> </span>with an illiterate family and fewer opportunities, and to face prejudice from the ignorant. (Who ought to try living without butchers and tailors sometime.) But as I said, it's a complicated topic. This girl and her friends are not starving or destitute, they live in a village that has changed enormously for the good, and she has a kid goat that she thinks is really cool and needs its photo taken many times. Many many times. With as many friends as possible. Maybe that explains my dead camera battery.</div>
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I WANT THESE SHIRTS. Hew of Fashion! Free Mi! GEDEOPEED! Someday everyone will speak good English, and then they won't have shirts like this, and it will be a terrible loss to the landscape. I mean, Nepal isn't all mountains and lush scenery. If we didn't have humor around here, it could be a bit hard to take. So huzzah for the ridiculous shirts. </div>
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In the Dressed For The Holidays category, we have this Dashain Beauty, </div>
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who shows the fashionable way to put barley sprouts in your hair. </div>
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The well-dressed forehead will wear yogurt, rice and vermilion powder this season.</div>
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You're never too young for a Dashain blessing. The cap keeps the barley sprouts on,</div>
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and the rain off. (We got hit by fringe-of-the-Indian-typhoon rain.)</div>
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Aspirational dressing. He doesn't actually have a Facebook page. But yes, he knows what it is.</div>
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And these Tharu boys do know <span style="color: red;"><span style="color: red;"><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9bZkp7q19f0"><span style="color: red;">Gangnam</span> <span style="color: red;">Style</span></a>.</span></span></div>
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Which, incidentally, may be one of the coolest videos ever. Think about it. It's a humorous video about the values and norms of Seoul's version of Beverly Hills. It's Valley Girl for South Koreans. A local in-joke about Asian Chic. How obscure can you get?</div>
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Yet it beat Justin Bieber for Most Watched Video Ever (1.7 billion views and counting), and now here it is in a village in the middle of nowhere. Not Michael Jackson or Britney Spears or someone rapping about bling, but a dweeby guy from Korea riffing on trying to be cool. Humor about bling and schlock beats bling and schlock. An Everyman from the non-Western sticks beats the Hollywood machine. </div>
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Gosh, it's just like Rocky. It could be a movie. With action figures! And more t-shirts.</div>
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And then, of course, there's this classic look. Courtesy of my nephew. Very Calvinesque (of Hobbes, not Puritanism). Somehow it never grows old. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLFVL-jL2TPsIokFtn22GrMsn66FyCHh2wUfe_35cRTrXGt4F7wY4rTqAiyz4o5CgrwwWIPrEjE1seRDjrCZmz7id6gcZpdUZ07l541GGHTeFprCEpNsPC4OwyoxCR_Itz8VJaG2VEw2M/s1600/PA140395.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLFVL-jL2TPsIokFtn22GrMsn66FyCHh2wUfe_35cRTrXGt4F7wY4rTqAiyz4o5CgrwwWIPrEjE1seRDjrCZmz7id6gcZpdUZ07l541GGHTeFprCEpNsPC4OwyoxCR_Itz8VJaG2VEw2M/s400/PA140395.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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Monsoon Rose http://www.blogger.com/profile/00999328889578835210noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8324143663561756372.post-70227341497800819802013-10-10T11:29:00.001+05:452013-11-20T16:08:22.617+05:45Dashain is Coming. So Are the Zombies. I Warned You.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRLQkIxffeMN5NdLqz8zTA104c9F5dCOXA0oTjOlF10IY7YX0i-sGg1pPjznRlFFT4FcqmvSoUYquOsdSuLFjxFDcpw3_qxYt7bNE7MfrJh2HzKgIt4RQDEfC6R0mJCr7WIHNoCbJyPtY/s1600/Nepal+photos+Fall+479.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRLQkIxffeMN5NdLqz8zTA104c9F5dCOXA0oTjOlF10IY7YX0i-sGg1pPjznRlFFT4FcqmvSoUYquOsdSuLFjxFDcpw3_qxYt7bNE7MfrJh2HzKgIt4RQDEfC6R0mJCr7WIHNoCbJyPtY/s400/Nepal+photos+Fall+479.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">In the US, you know the biggest holiday of the year is coming when you hear carols. OK, they're piped-in carols at shopping malls, but it does fill the air with festive anticipation. In Nepal, the year's biggest festival sounds like this: </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Baaaaah. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Baa<span style="font-size: large;">aaaah</span>. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> <span style="font-size: large;">Baa</span><span style="font-size: x-large;">aaaah</span><span style="font-size: large;">.</span></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYRpTcyLq453EhbJW2T4Xi_ULsDP6fvMz-LwsLBhYeNpbMMw3XoqfoUTS_kNrBTveP4x1PL7ulypvrEr12GABsVsfpf4mH5t4GT6Xho22bhKtb1bpKwcCbMoQ3QXmpkC7zqbhQBoWlgDU/s1600/Nepal+photos+Fall+470-002.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="326" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYRpTcyLq453EhbJW2T4Xi_ULsDP6fvMz-LwsLBhYeNpbMMw3XoqfoUTS_kNrBTveP4x1PL7ulypvrEr12GABsVsfpf4mH5t4GT6Xho22bhKtb1bpKwcCbMoQ3QXmpkC7zqbhQBoWlgDU/s320/Nepal+photos+Fall+470-002.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">My nephew with his dinner</span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Which is what I'm hearing right now, from a goat tied up somewhere in the 'hood. That means Dashain is coming and we're heading to the village soon, which is lucky, because I'll be closer to our Designated Anti-Zombie Hideout and hence have a shot at surviving the Zombie Invasion, which has already started. I'll provide the evidence shortly. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But first, Dashain. It celebrates the victory of the Goddess Durga over Evil in the form of a demon who appeared as a water buffalo -- this makes more sense if you've ever seen an irritable water buffalo -- and the male gods either couldn't do jack or were too busy talking politics or something, so they needed to call on a woman. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Enter Durga.</span></h3>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2ktScr1NAECiBMUIrTSPXzIA5F953llpLTvqsMPnhZtTxpIzGOj67so-wIKXK3vl4Iv8IQdJ3XjDSunqJpiEHMhwVQGjFb7U_jBO_kq19VgHJjRKMqUk4LemA2ls5e8uDxqgzQ2Ep29k/s1600/Durga+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2ktScr1NAECiBMUIrTSPXzIA5F953llpLTvqsMPnhZtTxpIzGOj67so-wIKXK3vl4Iv8IQdJ3XjDSunqJpiEHMhwVQGjFb7U_jBO_kq19VgHJjRKMqUk4LemA2ls5e8uDxqgzQ2Ep29k/s320/Durga+1.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Durga did what women do, which is to call other women, who in this case were actually forms of herself. This probably cut down on dissension in the Demon Fighting Focus Group, although I can't get all the parts of </span><i style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">my</i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> personality to agree with myself, so I have to hand it to Durga for her success. Hence, perhaps, her Goddess-hood. Then the nine forms of Durga, including the toughest one of all, Kali, put on a fine show of womanly collaboration and beat the crap out of Evil. The Goddess, united, can never be defeated. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This makes it one of the coolest festivals on earth. In spite of the fact that Durga is often depicted as a kewpie doll in Bollywood makeup, she's a toughie. As for Kali, she's not the type for lipstick and eyeliner, and artists know better than to give her a makeover.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And now, if you're a middle-school student who stumbled onto this blog while doing a term paper, here's the ...</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">EDUCATIONAL SECTION! </span></h3>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Dashain is also known as Navaratri (Nine Nights), which is why, if you're Indian and reading this, you've been saying "What the heck is Dashain?" It's also known as Durga Puja and Dussehra and other names that I won't get into because that's what Wikipedia is for. The Indian Subcontinent has the whole post-modern multicultural thing down pat. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Each of the days of Dashain is devoted to one of the the Nine Forms of the Goddess, each worshiped on her day to strengthen her own battle with evil. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>Day One </b>is for <b>Parvati, Daughter of the Mountains. </b> Her nature is great beauty, and on her day, <i>Gatasthapana, </i>when the new crescent moon has just barely appeared, you plant barley and keep it in the dark so the sprouts are golden and your elders can stick them behind your ear on the main festival day, because they're your elders and they can do what they want. Parvati</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> also goes by the name of Shailapatri, and some other names too. AND of course she's part of Durga. These are the ideas South Asians came up with before they got into computers. Think of the mandala to the right as a suitably complex concept map:</span><br />
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<i>Mandala from ceremony to the Thousand Names of the Divine Mother.</i></div>
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<i>The ceremony focuses on Lalita ("She Who Plays" or "The Spontaneous One"),</i></div>
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<i>a name for Parvati and a form of Shakti/The Goddess. </i></div>
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<b style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Day Two </b><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">is for </span><b style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Brahmacharini, The Celibate One, </b><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">ever unmarried, who leads the way to peace, bliss and liberation. Somehow this makes sense. On so many levels. Although, of course, the opposite does too, because, of course, infinite realities ...</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>Day Three </b>is for <b>Chandraghanta, The Tiger Rider. </b>Her gift is bravery in the service of peace. Too bad she's not more famous.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>Day Four </b>is for <b>Kushmanda, The Warm Little Cosmic Egg</b>, who gives power to the sun and is in some sense a life-giver who created the universe. And her name really means what I said.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>Day Five </b>is for <b>Skandamata, Mother of Kartikeya, </b>who gave birth to a six-headed god-cum-demon fighter who was actually created by two males, Shiva and Agni. As the status update for relationships says, "It's Complicated." You could call her a surrogate mother. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>Day Six </b>is for <b>Kathyayini, The Lion Rider, </b>whose story is intriguing given the priority the culture has long placed on sons. She's the daughter of a great sage who prayed to the gods to give him a daughter who embodied Shakti -- not a son, but a daughter/goddess -- and he got the brave Kathyayini. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>Day Seven </b>is for <b>Kaal Ratri, The Death of Time. </b>This is Kali, intense and powerful and fierce. It's a day for flowers and blood. During the day, flowers and leaves are carried to the temple in a ceremonial procession. But Navaratri follows a lunar calendar, and this is a night when the half-moon rises and vanishes around midnight. It's marked in our village by a midnight she-goat slaughter. The goat is communally bought, cooked in the dark and eaten on the spot by participants. Slaughtering a she-goat is explicitly transgressive; typically only male animals are eaten. But Kaal Ratri/Kali does not follow the usual rules.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiv1cYhxXYEg16bsJURnSh7r9u1BwDQAkZkav3m3350qZpKQj-Oh149mDgjTenQkozXuHga5wxvSljgzDeTA31-Yaui70zqL6eTnyBWLKq0zhY9-aLHi8Q4IEus_xtG05wW4Po6zqvGKLs/s320/Nepal+photos+Fall+763.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="320" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Durga shrine at Dashain near our family's home in the village </i></td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiv1cYhxXYEg16bsJURnSh7r9u1BwDQAkZkav3m3350qZpKQj-Oh149mDgjTenQkozXuHga5wxvSljgzDeTA31-Yaui70zqL6eTnyBWLKq0zhY9-aLHi8Q4IEus_xtG05wW4Po6zqvGKLs/s1600/Nepal+photos+Fall+763.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span></a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>Day Eight </b>is for <b>Mahagauri, The White One. </b>Depending on who's telling it, she may be an innocent child or a nubile teenager. But she's wise. Bet on her against any demons. Incidentally, the day is called <i>Mahasthami, </i>a day to clean and worship your sickles, plough blades, swords and kitchen knives, perhaps because at this point the battle with demons is moving towards its apex and you'd better be ready. Also there's a really big dinner coming. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>Day Nine </b>is for <b>Siddhidatri, Giver of Enlightenment. </b>An enlightened person, of course, would realize that all of the goddesses are really aspects of <b>Maha Shakti, </b>the Great Energy, also known as Durga.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Dashain technically goes until the Full Moon, or <i>Purnima, </i>and Nepal's government used to shut down until then when it was a Hindu kingdom. But now they've added Eid and Christmas as public holidays, and if you've got any other holidays to be inclusive about I'm sure they'll add them too (on paper, anyway, and because otherwise the groups will call a <i>bandh</i>), so Dashain has lost some days. At any rate, the big celebration has always been on </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>Day Ten,</b> <i>Vijaya Dashami ("Vijaya" meaning "victory"), </i>since Durga in all her forms has finished her nine-day battle with the demons and it's time to party. That's Monday, Oct. 14 this year.</span><br />
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<span style="color: blue; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i><b>Disclaimer</b>: Remember that multicultural thing? The foregoing has been the Nepal version. I mean the My Family's Ethnic Group In Their Part of Nepal version. It's more or less close to other Hindu versions, since there are an infinite number of realities and also, I suspect, because South Asians like to talk a lot. So explanations won't necessarily match up in the details. Celebrations vary, too. I gather that Kathmanduites often have big fancy family parties with hundreds of guests for days and days before Dashain. What to wear, what to wear? But that's their problem. We do things The Village Way.</i></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Anyway, The Big Village-Wide Party. On Dashain, that means goat. And there's no pussy-footing around in a village: If you're going to eat meat, you will not escape the death-and-blood part. Vegetarians like my father-in-law -- who is also a <i>pandit, </i>or priest, and appropriately observant -- sacrifice a pumpkin with full ceremony. But as tends to be the case in Hinduism (at least in my experience), your own choice is yours alone, and while he took a vow many decades ago not to touch meat or harm animals, he wouldn't insist that his choice is the only right way. For him to eat meat would be a sin, because of his vow. But the rest of the family eats meat or not, as they prefer, and for the most part they're keen on their Dashain goat.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtXSkESovBPZz0UJdDAOylgwIuFZ_3U9Q6pU-EDks7kNRpr9xr2vhW-1-xuONWLPJvZWJy_KezEksmSfI4VinhT7DuMkFv6mvPrm1CdsTEtD7Ivj1w7m1SYJATJ_jSoKraAOTTAFoe_HQ/s1600/Nepal+photos+Fall+500.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtXSkESovBPZz0UJdDAOylgwIuFZ_3U9Q6pU-EDks7kNRpr9xr2vhW-1-xuONWLPJvZWJy_KezEksmSfI4VinhT7DuMkFv6mvPrm1CdsTEtD7Ivj1w7m1SYJATJ_jSoKraAOTTAFoe_HQ/s400/Nepal+photos+Fall+500.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Goats by the score are brought to the Durga temple, <br />where they're garlanded and consecrated to the Goddess and tied to a flower-topped sacrificial pole<br /> as people hang out and bang on drums and go about their worship.<br /> Without, I'll add, either the grave propriety of Western tradition<br /> or the imagined symphonic intensity of exotic ancient rituals by Others (Hollywood style). <br />People just do things. It is what it is. Bring flowers.</i></td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgML_oHGF5ipm-NlJkT4yuyIvIvhmu1lWqIpX5h3vjbSjYe9GB4CqcWtvc4ESvKXR9zCfFU9wBCBpaMp0JWXAC_yBktGuFJicWJ6d8GuQFm8UwIoVf7QcfjCqwM6zxnPYRYxTiGMtKKu-8/s1600/Nepal+photos+Fall+489.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgML_oHGF5ipm-NlJkT4yuyIvIvhmu1lWqIpX5h3vjbSjYe9GB4CqcWtvc4ESvKXR9zCfFU9wBCBpaMp0JWXAC_yBktGuFJicWJ6d8GuQFm8UwIoVf7QcfjCqwM6zxnPYRYxTiGMtKKu-8/s400/Nepal+photos+Fall+489.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEvoluZOwP8NkuFI7HoN1g9b68ICkUEK0HerM-TisjexHT1ZDzaEaWRzDEKGVmTKZoPl4v3rKuc2BtTdvsD10RTPR7cFUPZGH36Vo1gdqPq11ZSTeeFlY71mv5Ii_HpX_FEX5MaG7Lpfk/s1600/Nepal+photos+Fall+464.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEvoluZOwP8NkuFI7HoN1g9b68ICkUEK0HerM-TisjexHT1ZDzaEaWRzDEKGVmTKZoPl4v3rKuc2BtTdvsD10RTPR7cFUPZGH36Vo1gdqPq11ZSTeeFlY71mv5Ii_HpX_FEX5MaG7Lpfk/s400/Nepal+photos+Fall+464.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>After the goat is asked if it wants to be sacrificed and shakes its head "yes" (helped by a sprinkle of water),<br /> the head is duly cut off and the body dragged around the pole several times to encircle it with blood<br /> as an offering to Durga/Shakti in all her forms.<br />Then people take their goats home to eat, because The Goddess is only interested in the blood.</i></td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhf2xQxVXUyaulcmXFylopTH3FSx_U5HZtD-6VfL1TxuuLUGdO_RN-HvI2b0RYPqxwsdJaxQO7vMw7IHTXIv8kqOqsbANb-mR2EICOs1H7oU3wFu8iVyMw_u59EbdihqLNfXf2iTXiLsqo/s1600/Nepal+photos+Fall+540.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhf2xQxVXUyaulcmXFylopTH3FSx_U5HZtD-6VfL1TxuuLUGdO_RN-HvI2b0RYPqxwsdJaxQO7vMw7IHTXIv8kqOqsbANb-mR2EICOs1H7oU3wFu8iVyMw_u59EbdihqLNfXf2iTXiLsqo/s320/Nepal+photos+Fall+540.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<h3 style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Then it's time to EAT! (After a drippy blessing.)</span></h3>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The central activity of Dashain, its ceremonial <i>raison d'etre, </i>is to get blessed by your elders </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">by having them plaster your forehead with yogurt, uncooked rice, and red powder. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Why that's a blessing I do not know. It seems like a ritual invented by the Three Stooges when they couldn't find a cream pie. Is it marking the harvest? Is it reminding us that we're all ultimately part of the food chain? </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimhCgkfEm9KS2Ib8svtZi2mqHMfSyU1rt5Xu60NaAmt6LcChmEM86-QuVUFTGHZIcAoxu-GohOnVBK_wG3992bM_2IU8gHBNTWrEh0b1-uzI5fVdMHbIX9kTkSydZid3MaYBGbuNMnZx4/s1600/Nepal+photos+Fall+700.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimhCgkfEm9KS2Ib8svtZi2mqHMfSyU1rt5Xu60NaAmt6LcChmEM86-QuVUFTGHZIcAoxu-GohOnVBK_wG3992bM_2IU8gHBNTWrEh0b1-uzI5fVdMHbIX9kTkSydZid3MaYBGbuNMnZx4/s200/Nepal+photos+Fall+700.JPG" width="200" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">No one I've asked could ever explain it. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Oh, they could theorize,</span><i style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">but the genesis of the smeary wet blessing is as vague and speculative as the origins of Christmas trees and Easter eggs, and no one thinks about the origins anyway when they're doing it. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It's just what people have always done. It's fun. It's Dashain. And it's got that whole Hindu too-much-of-everything-is-just-enough vibe: </span><i style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">You want a blessing from me? Well, here's a LOT of blessing! It's dripping off your forehead and onto your new Dashain clothes! </i><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEir-Ws-Ilfcw-ce8J7VEwYmN1w2mG8NWDpqsmYUUncadfcZbTtpnkCBs9IAn9wtcBmNF2LAv5q4XKCRg0UnuqcMx83v3a1ZVNVFzq0OnAt4oNNoFmUPbyXWVGR3T9InpNfQydnTi9RAUq0/s1600/Nepal+photos+Fall+723.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEir-Ws-Ilfcw-ce8J7VEwYmN1w2mG8NWDpqsmYUUncadfcZbTtpnkCBs9IAn9wtcBmNF2LAv5q4XKCRg0UnuqcMx83v3a1ZVNVFzq0OnAt4oNNoFmUPbyXWVGR3T9InpNfQydnTi9RAUq0/s400/Nepal+photos+Fall+723.JPG" width="300" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVv8CGhXoBZUnndTo41XgwGA74Neo17YJVFoL9ggYfPo17isw5FuzSxLsD29t5RrhU5sYkBe2jHSq0_HLpX0xwRLJLQSP65eTzaykRVWTWIBv1_rRzYhQlxZxgyh5RWlUuEvbcyGN32ao/s1600/Nepal+photos+Fall+749.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><br /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4zkvChl_Arp79zvUF9F_LDLJmZaQFNbBEdZfaIiXoCAd7EvfKDB_WKKU0xnl105oUf2SprIUoLZKHBsTP_r5Pwbxi4XACuvoJ0sWFyM_S-uiW_ODeStFGw0TcSFaI8h1wOSpsz_IQryo/s1600/Nepal+photos+Fall+741.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVv8CGhXoBZUnndTo41XgwGA74Neo17YJVFoL9ggYfPo17isw5FuzSxLsD29t5RrhU5sYkBe2jHSq0_HLpX0xwRLJLQSP65eTzaykRVWTWIBv1_rRzYhQlxZxgyh5RWlUuEvbcyGN32ao/s1600/Nepal+photos+Fall+749.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="281" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVv8CGhXoBZUnndTo41XgwGA74Neo17YJVFoL9ggYfPo17isw5FuzSxLsD29t5RrhU5sYkBe2jHSq0_HLpX0xwRLJLQSP65eTzaykRVWTWIBv1_rRzYhQlxZxgyh5RWlUuEvbcyGN32ao/s320/Nepal+photos+Fall+749.JPG" width="400" /></a><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4zkvChl_Arp79zvUF9F_LDLJmZaQFNbBEdZfaIiXoCAd7EvfKDB_WKKU0xnl105oUf2SprIUoLZKHBsTP_r5Pwbxi4XACuvoJ0sWFyM_S-uiW_ODeStFGw0TcSFaI8h1wOSpsz_IQryo/s400/Nepal+photos+Fall+741.JPG" width="400" /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">From top left: Young family members waiting for the feast and peeking in at the kalash, a ceremonial vessel to welcome goodness and fortune to the house, generally filled with water and leaves such as mango and pipal; Getting tika (blessings) from my husband's sister; Son getting a blessing from a great-aunt; Happily dripping niece. </span></i></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>BUT, you ask ... </b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
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<h3 style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b>WHAT DOES THIS HAVE TO DO WITH ZOMBIES? </b></span></h3>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">(Other than the blood and gore part. And the part about Evil let loose in the land. And the fact that trying to do design in Blogger is turning me into one.)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Here's the thing. My son, who of course is always reliable, reports that in the last few days he has seen several men -- not one, not two, but at least three -- wandering the neighborhood, growling and grimacing and acting like they wanted to bite. I told him he was either totally exaggerating or they were drunk or crazy. Mental health care isn't exactly state-of-the-art here.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">He said, "Watch out. The skeptics are always the first to get bit."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But see, luckily, we're headed within walking distance of our Designated Anti-Zombie Hideout. It's not our family's current village, which is too flat to keep away zombies. But as you surely know from World War Z, zombies cannot climb and are particularly stymied by the Himalayas. So our destination, in event of zombie breakout, is my mother-in-law's family village, which isn't far, relatively speaking. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; text-align: center;">It looks like this: </span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivreZ97Ms3ON25rk28WX69Xi8xyq47UV57JnEVHVQ3vRDPJ47i9kfWgHzN0Ax73YRq_7QHOOojqo-I6sp0EIUA-vx-rADGeS8Fw0gMnrnC58PVZtDK9e79NGa6KFojJG4RF2AlJwerPJs/s1600/Durga+fighting+demon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivreZ97Ms3ON25rk28WX69Xi8xyq47UV57JnEVHVQ3vRDPJ47i9kfWgHzN0Ax73YRq_7QHOOojqo-I6sp0EIUA-vx-rADGeS8Fw0gMnrnC58PVZtDK9e79NGa6KFojJG4RF2AlJwerPJs/s320/Durga+fighting+demon.jpg" width="192" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>18th c. painting of Durga fighting<br />the demon Mahisasura. </i><br />
<i>You see that she is well-positioned </i><br />
<i>to hit zombies in the brain,</i><br />
<i>where it counts.</i></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We just have to get there, block off the lone dirt road (conveniently edged by sheer cliffs), and bide our time eating home-grown rice and lentils and guavas until the Zombie Apocalypse ends. </span></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Hopefully Durga will help out. They've got a lot of goats to thank her with.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So if you don't hear from me for a while, I may be celebrating Dashain in the village, or the zombies may be coming and we saw them first and have headed to the heights and I'll be able to say "I warned you." </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Either that or my son is right and I'll be saying AAArrrrgggROWL CHOMP.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Nepal's main "highway" and the best road out of Kathmandu -- </i><br />
<i>almost the only one --<br />crowded with travelers at Dashain on its two cliff-hugging lanes.<br />An excellent terrain for evading zombies. Unless they're in the cars and buses,<br />in which case it will be a zombie jam. And we'll all be jam for the zombies.</i></td></tr>
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Monsoon Rose http://www.blogger.com/profile/00999328889578835210noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8324143663561756372.post-38800570191912245892013-10-08T20:32:00.000+05:452013-11-17T08:31:23.645+05:45Shake the Tree and Pour the Rum, It's Guava Season<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">In Nepal, we live seasonally. Mango season is over, but now it’s guava time. We're lucky enough to have two trees at our house -- well, not "our" house exactly, the landlord's house, but it'll do -- which means I can pick guavas from the balcony without going to the trouble of putting on shoes. Alternately someone can climb the tree, which is not my option of choice, or hit the branches with the mutilated leg of a camera tripod.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />As most people don't look at a tripod and think "Guava Retrieval Stick," this requires an explanation. One day my son was filming at the sprawling and forested complex of Pashupatinath Temple when two monkeys, showing a capacity for teamwork and collaboration and goal-directed thinking that would make an aid agency trainer proud, grabbed his tripod and ran off with it. My son, being a teenager and hence having forgotten to pack his brain that morning, ran after the monkeys, down the steep slope and into the tangled underbrush that was probably full of snakes, none of which fortunately bit him as he ranted and raved at the monkeys and the monkeys bared their teeth and fortunately didn't bite him and inspected the stolen tripod and did their own version of ranting and raving when it turned out not to contain any food, and then threw it back at our son in disgust. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">That's how we have only a tripod leg. But
it’s good for knocking down guavas. Next time any monkeys come around, we're armed.</span><br />
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<i style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Monkey thinking deep monkey thoughts. Watch out for your bag. Or tripod. </span></i><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">As a presumed 99 percent of the audience of this blog already knows (because you know me personally which is why you're reading it, thank you, I'll read your blogs too now!), my husband is Nepali, and although we lived in the U.S. for years, he grew up in a small village without anything fancy like electricity or running water or a toilet. Not even an outhouse. People just took a morning trip to the riverbanks to do their duty,</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 16px;"> with the Brahman and Chhetri men looping their <i>janai, </i>or sacred thread, over their ears as they did their business and then not un-looping it, so that you knew who had just taken a dump. Village life isn't big on privacy. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 16px;">T</span>his relates to guavas because the encircling jungle, where you went anyway to cut firewood, was also a popular place for nature's business. The result was an abundance of whatever seedy things people had eaten, particularly guavas, chili peppers and tomatoes. They all grow wild in the jungle. </span><br />
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<i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Son and friend at the fringe of our family village, where the jungle, although heavily cut, can still be seen:</span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Children pick the fruits wild and also become adept at stealing the fruits from neighbors’ trees. I
see it here, too, on my lane in Kathmandu. The other day I passed a group of boys who paused guiltily in the act of climbing a wall
and knocking down guavas from a tree not their own. It's the kind of Tom Sawyer, Norman Rockwell-ish activity that would get a kid tagged as a delinquent in the U.S. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Guavas are pulpy and semi-tasteless before they're truly ripe, but when they're ready, they’re heavenly. And they're surprisingly potent, health-wise, much like blueberries. A study on fruits common in India, <span style="color: red;"><a href="http://www.telegraph.co.uk/health/healthnews/8822303/Guava-the-ultimate-superfood.html"><span style="color: red;">which I have been scholarly enough to link to, at least in its game-of-telephone newspaper form,</span></a> </span>concluded that the guava,<span style="background-color: white; color: #282828; line-height: 20.71875px;"> </span><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 20.71875px;">"exotic </span><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 20.71875px;">in Europe but a poor man's fruit in I</span><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 20.71875px;">ndia," is "the ultimate superfood," with the highest concentration of antioxidants in the study.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 20.71875px;"><br /></span><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 20.71875px;">The guava is a so-called "poor man's fruit" in part, perhaps, because they're known (at least among rural people) to</span><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 20.71875px;"> grow from poop, which doesn't tend to give them an elegant reputation. And they're ubiquitous. Kind of like crabgrass or McDonald's in America. </span><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 20.71875px;">I'm in the city, but we're knocking guavas off the tree daily. The landlady was just sweeping the yard and complaining about all the guavas littering the ground. The dogs use them as balls. One almost conked me on the head today. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 20.71875px;">In fact</span></span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 20.71875px;">, unripe guavas make excellent weapons in the hands of monkeys. If you throw something at a monkey, it may well throw it back, since monkey do know how to use their opposable thumbs to achieve their goals, such as whacking village kids on the head. A monkey can supposedly kill a person with a guava. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 20.71875px;">Here's what you apparently get from a guava, aside from a possible conk on the head:</span><br />
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<li><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 20.71875px;">209 percent of the recommended daily amount of Vitamin C.Take <i>that, </i>orange juice. Not just 200 percent, but a 9 percent bonus.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 20.71875px;">Vitamin A in the form of beta carotene. Funny, it doesn't look like a carrot.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 20.71875px;">Some research suggests they can help fend off diabetes. A healthy sugar? Cool.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 20.71875px;">It can be used against diarrhea and other intestinal problems, which is good to know when you live in Nepal.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 20.71875px;">More potassium than an equal serving of bananas. Although a monkey is less likely to use a banana as a weapon. </span></li>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">H</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">aving a superfood at arm's reach to provide us with anti-oxidants is helpful in Kathmandu, for reasons you can see.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And yet it's not all smoke, dust and asthma here. Politicians come to the rescue. Yes, because of politicians and wannabe politicians, there are strikes (<i>bandhs</i>) that shut down the city with some regularity as political parties protest other parties and try to make people do what <i>they </i>want and <i>only </i>what they want. It's rather like snow days in Washington DC. Actually it's like other things in Washington too. But it does have benefits. This is the city without traffic, on a lovely clear <i>bandh </i>day.</span><i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> </span> </i></div>
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<o:p><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Now, since this is a blog and you've already scrolled down all this way, and endured terrible newbie blogger layout to boot, it's my ethical duty to offer some recipes. Besides, </span></o:p><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">every woman who blogs and mentions her kid and isn't crafty must at least give recipes once in a while. I believe in Rule of Law.</span><br />
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<i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">These are some Laziness Approved Recipes for using fresh guavas. If you're reading this in the northern realm of the blogosphere, like Cleveland or Helsinki, then you can use packaged guava juice and think of us in exotic Kathmandu, plucking guavas in the shimmering shadow of the Himalayas. Nyanyanya. Cough cough. Whoops, that shadow was actually diesel smoke.</span></i><br />
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Guavaritas</span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">8 ounces Guava nectar</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">4 ounces tequila</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">4 limes</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Juice three of the limes, to get about 3 tablespoons juice, and slice the last lime in round slices for garnish.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Mix and shake with ice cubes <i>(Recipe says "in cocktail shaker," but we don't exactly have one here. Luckily the human mind can figure things out.)</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Strain, garnish, enjoy</span><br />
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<span itemprop="amount" style="background-color: white; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;">7 cups</span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><span itemprop="name" style="background-color: white; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;">guava juice (not pre-sweetened)</span></div>
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<li itemprop="ingredient" itemscope="" itemtype="http://data-vocabulary.org/RecipeIngredient" style="float: none; margin: 0px 0px 5px; padding: 0px 0px 2px; vertical-align: top;"><span itemprop="amount">3 cups</span> <span itemprop="name">white (light) rum</span></li>
<li itemprop="ingredient" itemscope="" itemtype="http://data-vocabulary.org/RecipeIngredient" style="float: none; margin: 0px 0px 5px; padding: 0px 0px 2px; vertical-align: top;"><span itemprop="amount">2/3 cup</span> <span itemprop="name">fresh lime juice</span></li>
<li itemprop="ingredient" itemscope="" itemtype="http://data-vocabulary.org/RecipeIngredient" style="float: none; margin: 0px 0px 5px; padding: 0px 0px 2px; vertical-align: top;"><span itemprop="amount">1/4 cup</span> <span itemprop="name">grenadine (pomegranate-flavored syrup)</span><span itemprop="preparation"></span></li>
<li itemprop="ingredient" itemscope="" itemtype="http://data-vocabulary.org/RecipeIngredient" style="float: none; margin: 0px 0px 5px; padding: 0px 0px 2px; vertical-align: top;">Ice cubes<span itemprop="preparation"></span></li>
<li itemprop="ingredient" itemscope="" itemtype="http://data-vocabulary.org/RecipeIngredient" style="float: none; margin: 0px 0px 5px; padding: 0px 0px 2px; vertical-align: top;">Lime slices or wedges, or fresh guava slices<span itemprop="preparation"></span></li>
<li itemprop="ingredient" itemscope="" itemtype="http://data-vocabulary.org/RecipeIngredient" style="float: none; margin: 0px 0px 5px; padding: 0px 0px 2px; vertical-align: top;"><span itemprop="preparation"></span></li>
<li itemprop="ingredient" itemscope="" itemtype="http://data-vocabulary.org/RecipeIngredient" style="float: none; margin: 0px 0px 5px; padding: 0px 0px 2px; vertical-align: top;">In a large pitcher, mix guava juice, rum, lime juice, and grenadine. Pour over ice in glasses and garnish with slices of lime or guava.</li>
</ul>
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<div align="center" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 18pt;">West
Indies Guava Barbecue Sauce</span></b><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIYNPpwXTH3oRRRWAr-nX5t5pOFE-QE0qSzmuwsPbZJ7brJ3E_TgJxSRb7cF0Z1ygO1lt2BGUCNtxdkD_1EqQK7y_iIDGOBz_B1fkmdCStJjQYfJO-1xmUyNJEyogUbJ2UXJQiiwC78yk/s1600/BBQ+sauce.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIYNPpwXTH3oRRRWAr-nX5t5pOFE-QE0qSzmuwsPbZJ7brJ3E_TgJxSRb7cF0Z1ygO1lt2BGUCNtxdkD_1EqQK7y_iIDGOBz_B1fkmdCStJjQYfJO-1xmUyNJEyogUbJ2UXJQiiwC78yk/s320/BBQ+sauce.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<div style="background: white; line-height: 11.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; padding: 0in;">1</span> <span style="border: none windowtext 1.0pt; mso-border-alt: none windowtext 0in; padding: 0in;">guava - peeled, seeded, and chopped<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><i>(seeded? What, OUR guavas? What'll be left?)</i></span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 11.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; padding: 0in;">1
(15 ounce) can</span> <span style="border: none windowtext 1.0pt; mso-border-alt: none windowtext 0in; padding: 0in;">tomato sauce</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 11.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; padding: 0in;">1
(6 ounce) can</span> <span style="border: none windowtext 1.0pt; mso-border-alt: none windowtext 0in; padding: 0in;">tomato paste</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 11.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; padding: 0in;">1/2
cup</span> <span style="border: none windowtext 1.0pt; mso-border-alt: none windowtext 0in; padding: 0in;">water</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 11.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; padding: 0in;">1/4
cup brown sugar</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 11.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; padding: 0in;">2
tablespoons liquid smoke flavoring<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><i>(Ha!
Just where would I get that here? Yet we will survive.)</i></span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 11.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; padding: 0in;">2
tablespoons</span> <span style="border: none windowtext 1.0pt; mso-border-alt: none windowtext 0in; padding: 0in;">fresh lemon juice</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 11.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: -.25in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; padding: 0in;"> 1 tablespoon Worcestershire sauce</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 11.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; padding: 0in;">1
tablespoon</span> <span style="border: none windowtext 1.0pt; mso-border-alt: none windowtext 0in; padding: 0in;">habanero hot sauce<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><i>(Something tells me it doesn't
absolutely HAVE to be habanero.)</i></span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 11.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; padding: 0in;">1
teaspoon</span> <span style="border: none windowtext 1.0pt; mso-border-alt: none windowtext 0in; padding: 0in;">molasses </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 11.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; padding: 0in;">1
tablespoon</span> <span style="border: none windowtext 1.0pt; mso-border-alt: none windowtext 0in; padding: 0in;">garlic powder</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 11.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; padding: 0in;">1
tablespoon</span> <span style="border: none windowtext 1.0pt; mso-border-alt: none windowtext 0in; padding: 0in;">onion powder<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><i>(Whatever.
I could pulverize some onion instead.)</i></span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 11.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; padding: 0in;">1
teaspoon</span> <span style="border: none windowtext 1.0pt; mso-border-alt: none windowtext 0in; padding: 0in;">salt</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 11.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; padding: 0in;">1/2
teaspoon</span> <span style="border: none windowtext 1.0pt; mso-border-alt: none windowtext 0in; padding: 0in;">black pepper<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span><br />
<b style="text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></b>
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<b style="text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">In a large</span></span></b><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span class="plaincharacterwrap"><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; padding: 0in;"> saucepan over low heat, stir together the guava, tomato
sauce, tomato paste, water, and brown sugar until well blended. Stir in liquid
smoke (sic), fresh lemon juice, Worcestershire sauce, habanero sauce, and molasses.
Season with garlic powder, onion powder, salt, and black pepper. Cover and
cook 30 minutes, stirring occasionally, until thickened.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Enjoy! If you have guavas that is.</span><br />
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Monsoon Rose http://www.blogger.com/profile/00999328889578835210noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8324143663561756372.post-89496256624217395452013-10-06T15:53:00.000+05:452013-11-21T14:01:15.153+05:45Will Anything Blow Up If I Post This?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am finally starting a blog. This is a sure sign that
blogging is going out of fashion. I am not an early adapter. When I first
heard of Hotmail, I thought it was a porn site. I still
can’t move my music onto my new iPod because I’m afraid I’ll hit the
wrong button and everything will vanish. I once had a computer blow up on me.
Really. It could happen again.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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I should have started a blog when we moved to Nepal in
2010, dragging along a reluctant teenager and giving up great jobs in Washington D.C. to Follow Our Dreams.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Me following my dreams:</i></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhb4JOsY8fZ4owOtJIoy9d-T3FjxO6fyvn6UOzN07FX8r_X8FQ-MDzsb1RDx-xOIEE0e-L8e77RIZRxNf0bTZcsHR6l53_TAEhxMuZOsEJ1-mm9b7qLQwLEX94gyPxSOsZVtz6D_4fX02o/s1600/Nepal+photos+Fall+788.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhb4JOsY8fZ4owOtJIoy9d-T3FjxO6fyvn6UOzN07FX8r_X8FQ-MDzsb1RDx-xOIEE0e-L8e77RIZRxNf0bTZcsHR6l53_TAEhxMuZOsEJ1-mm9b7qLQwLEX94gyPxSOsZVtz6D_4fX02o/s320/Nepal+photos+Fall+788.JPG" title="I have an explanation for this." width="320" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<i>Teenager following his dreams. Well, not really. That would be a picture of him at a computer screen with a plate full of nachos. But this is him anyway:</i></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKoSnrZ5jhhuXW7busIhGgE1jNbhd38CTsDE36k4el49iCarrJrZjeDF2SvRGf_zYqwwvkKWob7tkcEtKAxOu5d3kCM411kPmNxJ7NqtZ1b5g25M8d8J9spW3yQT5bmcwJaQIASKhHbqg/s1600/421948_352757581503659_1832154047_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKoSnrZ5jhhuXW7busIhGgE1jNbhd38CTsDE36k4el49iCarrJrZjeDF2SvRGf_zYqwwvkKWob7tkcEtKAxOu5d3kCM411kPmNxJ7NqtZ1b5g25M8d8J9spW3yQT5bmcwJaQIASKhHbqg/s400/421948_352757581503659_1832154047_n.jpg" title="He'll appreciate this during College Freshman Week. ("You're from Buffalo? Interesting. I ride them.")" width="400" /></a></i></div>
<br />
That would have been a logical time to start blogging. But my friend Lois Lane didn’t let
me. I'm calling her Lois because I don’t know yet if I can edit blogs after
they’re posted (yes, I’m that clueless), and I don’t have her permission to use
her name. Lois has been a White House correspondent and rode
on Air Force One with George Bush and Bill Clinton and doesn’t like
blogging because it’s giving away your work for free. Which is true. So I
listened to her, since she’s the kind of person you listen to. Except as it
turns out, after three years in Nepal, I don’t have any work to give away
anyway. And so I’m starting this blog by blaming Lois, because I have a
teenager and I’ve learned a few lessons, such as that when you don’t do your
work, come up with an excuse.<br />
<br />
<i>See how I've already dropped in some wonderfully searchable terms? Bill Clinton! George Bush! </i><i>If you're a student writing a term paper, this is not the blog you are searching for. Go back. In fact, go back before you see the next picture. </i><i>Here's what George does now. He has become an artist. Mostly he seems to paint his dogs, which is a worthy occupation. And then there's this one.</i><i> </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><i>George W. Bush in the shower, by George W. Bush:</i></i></div>
<br />
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</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjwa1J1Zi8B1BoNt8CroOWK9k2559W8XsPbhHw1XZGxepwIkKqQNaN6WZB0ZczKoefTusosbLAPoKLTDgsHXnd1fT_CkaPft-3_X5woHxGQ66G6hzp1hhC7kfJDZe5_v0r7AjcYEvtK24/s1600/paintings-former-united-states-president-george-w-bush-10__605.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjwa1J1Zi8B1BoNt8CroOWK9k2559W8XsPbhHw1XZGxepwIkKqQNaN6WZB0ZczKoefTusosbLAPoKLTDgsHXnd1fT_CkaPft-3_X5woHxGQ66G6hzp1hhC7kfJDZe5_v0r7AjcYEvtK24/s400/paintings-former-united-states-president-george-w-bush-10__605.jpg" title="A brilliant deconstruction of the conflict between celebrity and banality within the post-presidential consciousness, complete with meta-commentary. Notice how he skews to the right. There's one of him in the tub, too. Wiggling his toes." width="281" /></a></div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Feel free to print it for your own shower. I will too, as soon as I can figure out </i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>how to get a picture of George into a Nepali shower. Like this one. </i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Here's my husband, following his dreams: </i></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAixHXf6FOTVA7lprlVBAdOFY4irN6Xdbl-G-kLDpjf4tMntD5FMZ9OgTw9Rs22RIE-IS2SWAQl-nkxXuBchbqGFeAKEXxcz7LM0OW8G3swkEvI6yIC4zj1lGe3NgXwV13dh06z1spBys/s1600/P1000837.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAixHXf6FOTVA7lprlVBAdOFY4irN6Xdbl-G-kLDpjf4tMntD5FMZ9OgTw9Rs22RIE-IS2SWAQl-nkxXuBchbqGFeAKEXxcz7LM0OW8G3swkEvI6yIC4zj1lGe3NgXwV13dh06z1spBys/s400/P1000837.JPG" title="OK, it's not technically a shower. But I've seen worse here. A lot worse." width="400" /></a></div>
<i><br /></i>Anyway, back to this newborn blog. I thought of other titles. Exotic ones. Beautiful evocative ones that I can use for my imaginary-someday-clothing business if it ever happens. Titles that might not make people think I’m going to give exercise tips. (Hah. As if.)<br />
<br />
But the sad truth is that I'm lazy. I live in Nepal, which is Officially Cool, so I ought to be doing yoga and meditation and hiking over Himalayan passes until I'm supple of body, shining of face and peaceful of mind. Nepal is full of incredible stories and experiences, and I do speak Nepali so I'm not actually clueless about what's going on around me. But I have not yet written My Amazing Insightful Book. I haven't even sent any tidbits to international news agencies, because (Mom of Teenager Excuse Alert!) I don't understand the virtual world of blogging and tweeting and whatever journalists do these days, plus they might make me write about Nepali politics and I'd go insane.<br />
<br /></div>
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<i>Follow this diagram to understand Nepali politics. Each staircase represents a party. Copy into hall of mirrors. Repeat until you reach The Shining Sustainable Ethnically Inclusive Future of The Democratic-<span style="font-size: xx-small;">With-No-Constitution-Yet</span> Federal-<span style="font-size: xx-small;">With-No-Federal-States-Yet</span> Republic of Nepal.</i><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/en/a/a3/Escher's_Relativity.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" height="304" src="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/en/a/a3/Escher's_Relativity.jpg" title="I believe there is a Training Manual that goes along with this." width="320" /></a></div>
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So don't ask me about Nepali politics. In
our house, we have a division of labor. My husband keeps track of the politics, perhaps because he never got into football and its fulfills some deep-seated male need for watching people bash each other pointlessly. What I
follow is the richness and absurdity and rabbit-hole complexity of life
here in Nepal; the gulfs of misunderstanding that are sometimes funny and sometimes
not so funny (aid projects, I’m looking at you); and important
topics like The Need for Education Reform and Why South Asian Clothes Are Amazing and Why My Dog Needs a Facebook Page.</div>
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<br />
At any rate, you can tell I have quite a well-defined niche here. If you’ve
logged onto this blog, you probably know me. Thank you. Encourage me to keep writing, and to write something sensible next time. It just might happen. Unless I take up yoga.</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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Monsoon Rose http://www.blogger.com/profile/00999328889578835210noreply@blogger.com