Every morning around 4 a.m., the neighbourhood roosters, whose body clocks are slightly discombobulated, start crowing. The sound of crickets fill the air when the roosters’ cuckoos die down, as they realize they are an hour early. Again.
They aren’t the only ones rising early though. The shadows before the sunrise do not stop the rustling of locals as they start their days, or the birds, which come in many varieties and sizes, from singing. The vegetable man calls out, and cars and bike engines roar, as they flee to work to avoid Kathmandu traffic.
It’s the kind of traffic that makes you think, “I should have just walked.” A mere five kilometres, which would take 15 minutes or less by car at night, could take one hour and a half during traffic jams.
It’s been only five days since I got here and, despite having eaten street food in many mud-stained and dirt-filled Manila alleys, I’ve already gotten food poisoning. On my fourth night here, I turned and churned in bed with cramps unlike any I’ve ever felt before. To be fair, though, I rarely ever have them. So I really don’t know how bad it is.
A few days later
Thankfully, the cramps subsided despite having stubbornly resisted injesting any kind of medicine. Ha, the perks of having an Asian mom! (She believes pharmaceutical companies are purposely inducing addictive properties into drugs, ensuring sustainable profits)
Jokes aside, I am thankful mum let me play in mud and dirt growing up. I’m convinced it has a direct correlation with my otherwise robust immune system.
The more you know, the less you know.
Last weekend, I was offered a complimentary tour of Pashupatinath and downtown Patan. Of course, I jumped on the opportunity to visit the fourth biggest Hindu temple in the world, as well as the second biggest city of Nepal.
Although my tour guide, Nabin, did an excellent job answering all my questions, or at least attempting to, I was left feeling confused.
Here, I’ll tell you why. Pashupatinath is a place for worship and sanctity. A place where life gets celebrated, ashes scattered, and souls leave their “impure bodies” behind for good.
Pashupatinath was dedicated to Lord Shiva, one of three deities to together be called the Hindu triad. As Shiva creates, protects and transforms the universe, (s)he is known to be the Lord of Divine Energy and the Destroyer of Evil. (S)he: because Shiva shows up in different forms, both female and male.
Sounds wholesome, right?
Well, not so much.
On raised platforms along the holy Bagmati River Antyestis of Hindus take place. The Antyesti rite of passage allows the body, the human vehicle, to be left behind by Brahman, the soul. The last sacrifice, the final rites of a cremation, are rooted in the belief that we should go as we came: bare and vulnerable, without material possessions, hopes or dreams, yet free of bodily weaknesses.
Fire is chosen to dispose of the dead because it is considered a pure element and powerful enough to scare away evil ghosts or demons. Agni, the Fire God, is worshipped and asked to consume the deceased’s physical body and prepare it for migration towards either heaven or reincarnation.
Every day, dozens of deceased’s feet get dipped into the river for a final blessing before being cremated. Anyone can watch – family members, friends, strangers, homeless, or your local baker, plumber or teacher.
Here’s the catch.
Not everyone is allowed to be cremated. Children under two (since they are still considered pure), lepers, people with small pox and low-caste members have no choice but to be buried.
If you walk through the entrance of Pashupatinath and continue halfway down the path to the temples and cremation grounds, there is a small alleyway to the right that leads you to a small gate.
Walk through the gate and up the stairs pictured above and you’ll find a burial ground that, unlike the rest of Pashupatinath, is not at all well-maintained and seems abandoned.
Caste System
In a 2001 Census, 81 per cent of Nepali people reported an affiliation to Hinduism, all of whom participate, by default, in the caste system.
After the promulgation of the National Code (Muluki Ain) in 1854, the caste system has been a major determinant of identity, social status and life chances.
– 2006 Nepal Demographic & Health Survey
Muluki Ain, considered the Nepali National Legal Code, laid out the standards for inter-caste behaviour and specified punishments for their infringement.
Everyone is measured in terms of their relative ritual purity into four sections, which, like all other pillars of Hinduism, have many additional subsections: Brahman priests, Kashatriya kings and warriors, Vaisya traders and businessmen and the Sudra peasants and labourers.
Here’s a chart from a 2001 Census.
I have yet to dissect what this means in practice. How much has changed. If the laws enacted by government against marginalization only have real influence in the Kathmandu Valley, not in rural areas. If the 2015 earthquakes balanced the religious/social inequalities, as hundreds of thousands of people, regardless of caste and status, were affected.
I remember watching YouTube videos in the aftermath of the earthquakes wherein Nepali people were saying that “Although it was a terrible, terrible thing, it brought the nation together.”
One man said said, “Even the richest man came to the road to help rebuild. High-casts, low-casts, everyone was suddenly equal.”
I guess I should tell you a little bit more about the severity of these earthquakes.
Well, in 2015, Nepal suffered from two massive earthquakes, measuring 7.8 and 7.3 on Richter’s Scale respectively. Nearly every local I’ve met has referred back to this terrifying time, when walls came tumbling down and thousands lost their lives. 14 districts were severely destroyed. Among them was Patan, a city I’ve been lucky to live in temporarily and where I’ve watched half a dozen suns set, each so different from the next.
Statistics
8,790 people died.
More than 22,300 people were injured.
500,000 homes were destroyed.
250,000 homes were damaged.
Eight million people were affected severely.
In 2014, economic growth was growing at five per cent. In 2015, the growth rate nearly halved to three per cent.
Today, many homes are still held up by wooden poles; more have yet to be reconstructed. The damage is evident everywhere.
Even Kumari Goddess’ Ghar (home) in Kathmandu Durbar Square has poles holding it up.
While I’m here, let me explain who Kumari Goddess is.
Kumari Goddess
Kumari is fearless, powerful and wise. She protects Her people from evils from within the walls She has lived since She was first chosen. Her body is of the purest kind, never to have lost a drop of blood, never to have ran so hard as to trip and scar her blemishless body. Her followers, Buddhists and Hindus alike, see Her as the sole embodiment of purity, and follow Her until She, like all women, innately loses Her first blood.
Her selection ritual is long and hostile. Without any one of the thirty-two traits that prove Her purity, things like sound health and an uncut body, She is deemed unworthy. She then is placed in a room where several buffalos are sacrificed and masked men dance atop their blood. If She shows any sign of fear at all, if She tries to walk out or if She cries, again She is deemed unworthy. Only She who sits silently surrounded by blood, terrifying masks, and buffalo skulls for an entire night is worthy to be the next incarnation of Goddess Taleju, the next Kumari Goddess.
Taleju shared a secret with the last Malla King: Tripasa, a game of dice to be exact. Every night they got together to play. But, one night, the King’s wife got suspicious, followed him and saw the goddess. Taleju felt betrayed and told the King that if he ever wanted to see her again, he would have to search among the high cast Newar girls, where she would be reincarnated.
Kumari Goddess, once selected, lives in Kumari Ghar, “the Princess’ Home,” for most of Her years until She is dethroned. She only leaves Her palace for ceremonial purposes, approximately 13 days per year, and rarely sees Her family.
Until recently, Kumaris weren’t given a proper education or the knowledge about social norms and life to prepare them for life after their dethroning. Now, She receives a personal tutor and even attends national exams inside the palace under supervision.
Her name is Trishna Shakya. She was chosen on September 27, 2017, when she was just three years old. She left a twin brother and parents behind to embark on this Living Goddess’ journey.
Photographs of the Kumari in Kathmandu Durbar Square are forbidden, but there are nine other Living Goddesses that you can meet in person.
I met Nihira Vajracharya and her family, her little sister and parents, in Patan. In her case, her parents were permitted to live with her, lucky girl.
I watched her bless me, then get carried to her room, (Kumaris’ feet cannot touch the ground), and start playing games on an iPhone.
Quite the experience, being blessed by a young Goddess, who, in her physical form, is just like any other child.
When asked whether Nepali people come to her for guidance, Nabin snickered.
“She’s five.”
Interesting.
Independence Through Agriculture
Farmers in Gajuri, a rural community in the Dhading District, three hours west of Kathmandu, said they are able to be financially independent now. They added that, until the turn of the century, it would have been difficult, as women, to justify independence to the community, their families, and even themselves.
Since Sana Kisan Bikas Bank Ltd. (SKBBL) opened up a branch in Gajuri, it has been easier to ask for, and receive, loans from the Small Farmers Agriculture Cooperative Ltd. (SFACL), Dhana Maya Magar said in an interview. The two largest 2015 earthquakes measuring 7.8 and 7.3 respectively on the Richter Scale devastated 14 districts in Nepal, one of which was the Dhading District, where Gajuri is located. As a result, the Gajuri SFACL offered livelihood restoration loans at two per cent interest, in addition to Nrs. 8,000 gratis, in collaboration with SKBBL.
Together with her family, Magar took advantage of the low interest rate and bought an additional half acre of land, as well as several goats and one buffalo. She said she was scared to not be able to pay back at the start, but that fear subsided as they began growing vegetables in the fall and rice in the spring. She said that, for the first time, the farm became more than a vehicle for sustenance; it became a vehicle for profit. Any excess was brought to a local marketplace and sold. With those profits she has been able to buy a tractor, sell her ox, and plough at least twice as fast with less effort.
Loans at SFACLs are often accompanied by optional educational trainings on survival, saving or spending habits. Before receiving the livelihood restoration loan, Magar said she never saved a penny. In fact, she had never even heard of the concept of saving until it was introduced to her by the Gajuri SKBBL Cooperative. She now puts Nrs. 200 per month aside as personal savings, and Nrs. 105 per month into a group saving’s account, which is used as a type of insurance. It enables anyone in the group, provided there is a unanimous vote, to use the money for emergencies like health.
Magar also received a training on how to use bio coal sustainably. Made from sawdust and agricultural waste, bio coal can be used as a replacement for oil or firewood in boilers or furnaces. She said “we used to burn coal in any way we liked” before participating in the training.
The Gajuri SFACL gave Magar a green card for being the “best loan receiver,” having always paid monthly payments on time. The green card allows 0.5 per cent to be taken off any loans she receives from the bank. Magar’s most recent loan stood at Rs. 700,000.
“And I’m no longer afraid that I won’t be able to pay it back,” she added.
She no longer has to work long hours under the boiling sun, and earns between Nrs. 300,000 and Nrs. 400,000 yearly.
A leader of several women’s groups in her community, Magar said the loan has empowered her to become financially capable of taking care of herself, as well as sustaining her family, who live with her.
As the interview drew to a close, Magar sighed, then smiled.
“I don’t have to depend on men to have capital, to have my own life.”
Empowering Local Farmers
Gajuri’s Sana Kisan Bikas Bank Ltd. (SKBBL) branch was established in 1995, two years before Kamala Nepal became a member of the Small Farmers Agriculture Cooperative Ltd. (SFACL). Like many other farmers, Nepal was afraid to ask for a loan at the start, but she said she has been able to generate so much money from it that she is not afraid anymore. Before receiving the loan, she was earning Nrs. 20,000 per year and lived with her inlaws. Nowadays, she is earning between Nrs. 100,000 and Nrs. 150,000 per year, and living in the home she built from profit she has accrued with the help of the loan.
Nepal’s mother and relative, standing in the part of the house that was recently constructed for expansion.
Nepal said she has been able to invest in better food and education for her children. Her son is currently pursuing a master’s degree, and her daughter is in grade 12.
Her family was also the first to own a tractor in the area, Nepal added proudly.
In Nepal’s home, the division of household chores are shared between family members, and usually depends on who is available. Whoever has spare time to prepare food, and wash dishes or clothes, does it for the whole family.
Although financial decisions are taken by both Nepal and her husband Hari Prasad Nepal, H.P. Nepal chuckled and said, “ultimately, she has the final say,” pointing to his wife.
At that, Nepal’s family members nodded in agreement, and Nepal smiled.
An ardent proponent for female empowerment, Nepal is one of the leaders of a Gajuri women’s group. She said there are not enough women in managerial positions at SKBBL and the group is fighting to change that.
“There must be a female SKBBL coordinator of insurance as well as livestock,” she said.
Nonetheless, the Gajuri SFACL has offered many educational trainings to their members, including one on proper health maintenance.
Before SKBBL came to Gajuri, Nepal said the community did not know what Typhoid was. They would treat abdominal pain, fever and diarrhea with fresh herbs. Now, they know to visit the local hospital for a check-up when the symptoms surface.
Managing On Her Own
A member of the Gajuri Small Farmers’ Agriculture Cooperative Ltd. (SFACL), Saraswati Koirala manages a vegetable farm, household chores and takes care of her 11-year-old son. The last time she saw her husband was five years ago, when he visited them for the first time since he left for Saudi Arabia in 2009.
The costs of maintaining the farm and sending her son to school worried Koirala, especially when two of her goats died. Not knowing whether she would be able to pay back, she, too, was afraid to ask for a loan from the Gajuri SFACL.
But she took the chance, and invested the money from the loan in vegetable farming. She said she promised herself, for her son’s sake, that she would work as hard as she could to pay back the loan. Soon enough, she noticed her spending increasing, but so did her savings. She is now able to save Nrs. 2,000 per month, and pay labourers to work on the land at Nrs. 1,200 per day, including breakfast, lunch and dinner.
Saraswati Koirala, in front of the home she was able to build from profits she earned after receiving loans from the Gajuri-based SFACL.
Koirala’s next business venture will be to reinvest in livestock. When her goats died, she had no insurance, so she was just left with meat to cook, eat and sell. The profit she gained was not enough to invest in even one goat.
With the Gajuri SFACL, she would have to pay a five per cent premium on the initial value of the animal to be reimbursed 75 per cent, if it dies. As the value of the animal depreciates, so too would the five per cent premium.
For instance, if Koirala were to buy a buffalo at Nrs. 100,000, she would have to pay Nrs. 5,000 in the first year to get livestock insurance. If, in the second year, the buffalo is only worth Nrs. 60,000, then the premium she would pay is Nrs. 3,000, five per cent of its current value.
With livestock insurance, Koirala said she would not have to worry as much about buying a buffalo, which she is planning to do.
Saraswati Koirala’s corn and pumpkin fields.
Rice. Why is it so important here?
Even trodding narrow alleyways, I still can’t escape the smell of cheap gasoline from the dozens of motorbikes that are just barely making it through without scraping someone’s leg. My nose and eyes have grown accustomed to the dirt that gets thrusted off the ground by speeding tires of all sizes as long as there is light out. I look up and, though I can see an inkling of blue, the sky is painted dark grey, clouds looming up ahead predicting heavy rains.
But, unlike the last three years where the country experienced record growth rates of over six per cent, this time it’s late. Two weeks, to be exact.
Monsoon delivers about 75 per cent of the annual rains. As two-thirds of Nepal’s farmland is rain-fed, it’s the most important part of the year for farmers to plant their crops. It’s the lifeblood of the nation’s economy, one variable that enables people to live abundantly. Among the products cultivated during the rain season is rice, Nepal’s most consumed staple food, which supplies 40 per cent of the population’s food calorie intake, and contributes 20 per cent to the total Agricultural GDP.
Farmers across the country are worried that their paddy saplings will dry up in the seed beds, as they can only be transplanted when the fields are flooded. The delay is caused by cyclonic rotations in the Bay of Bengal, located on the northeastern part of the Indian Ocean. The true consequences are yet to be seen.
“Hope. It’s everywhere.”
Happy morning!
I think I’ve finally figured it out. Nepal is so rich, so beautiful not only because of its hills and mountains, lush environment, forests and jungles, but because of its people. And more specifically their attitude towards suffering.
Despite having experienced two massive earthquakes in 2015, as described in an earlier post, and going through a civil war for 10 years until 2006, Nepal has resiliently continued onwards. I spoke to a new friend from Scotland recently, who told me he was here during the quakes. He was helping out a friend, who had lost his daughter two months prior, and then the home and school his grandfather had built.
Yet he was still hopeful. He told my Scottish friend “Something needs to be damaged for it to be rebuilt. Stronger. That’s what God is trying to tell me – to start building my own home, my own life..”
Every day I watch people run across the street to help their kin, their neighbours, or strangers. On the bus, seated passengers will take bags from just about anyone and place it on their laps so those who are standing don’t have to carry them.
Capital H-O-P-E. It’s everywhere.
The reconstruction of roads is in full swing, albeit slow… One would think. After talking to locals, I’ve gathered that no one really even tried to improve roads before the quakes. It was only after that everyone, small and large, regardless of caste and status, came to the road to help rebuild. One inch of asphalt at a time.
Many of us freak at the idea of having lost a phone on the bus. Or getting bad grades. But, really, in the scope of life, you have two choices.
To be defined by a bad past or to turn pain into power.
Dear Nepal,
Do you know what reverse culture shock is? It’s when you return to a country you’ve lived in for years, yet it feels more foreign than you ever could. It’s looking for lists you once wrote of things that made you happy on this massive expanse of land, where no one has time to bat an eye to a person in need, yet nothing satisfies your aching heart.
The first thing I noticed upon returning was the lack of appetizing food. Standing beside restaurants, gagging at the amount of grease that’s being expelled from their doors, and let’s not talk about the spiceless, tasteless food itself.
The second shock was the lack of colour, indicative of the lifelessness of Western society. Everywhere I look, people are dressed in black, white, grey or beige, safe for the occasional pink or red. Where’s yellow, the colour of happiness, joy, euphoria? Where’s green, the colour of growth, nature, and resilience? Where’s orange? Blue? Purple? Gold?
I don’t mean to make sweeping generalizations of Western societies. I’m just burdened by my ache for hills that are over 4,000 meters high, people who give away their laughter and tears so readily it brings knees humbling to the ground, fruits so ripe their juices pour over and through bare skin, friends who became family despite bruised knees, accidents on highways, street corners and alleys, or simply by coincidence. A friend once told me there are many of those in Nepal, and I can attest to that now too (you know who you are;)
I can go on about the shock I face every time I return to this progressive and advanced G8 country. But I can’t forget that I’m privileged to be here. Among people who live to work and will never be happy, but privileged nonetheless.
Privileged to have been able to travel to you and completely and utterly fall in love with you. The joy you and your people added to my life has transformed my energy into an even more bubbly forcefield than it was before. I didn’t know it was possible, but you know what they say:
Everything is impossible until it’s done.
Missing these jam-packed, multicoloured streets. 
Nostalgic for your mountains.
We almost beat the setting sun as we flew through these hills with the help of this man, who was
kind enough, as most Nepalese are, to reassure us we were on the right course home.
A home in the hills, offers more than thrills, 
worth more than bills, a hurting heart, it fills
Nepal, I’ll be back for you. I promise.