Into The Nepali Jungle, With Lights

My goodness. This Solar Sister project was definitely an experience. Installing a solar light panel is easy. If you’ve ever experienced an Ikea instruction book, then you’ve got the idea. Getting the thing there and feeling your way around a remote village with unfamiliar customs and strenuous social demands is quite another thing.

To illustrate: The first entry in my journal is from 25-August, when I first arrived in London. To my surprise, I’ve actally written something every single day since. However, more than 20% of my entire journal is now filled with my experiences over the 5 days in Borlang village on this project. For that reason, it’s hard to know where to start! I decided to briefly spin through the basics and then include an excerpt from my journal for one of the more interesting evenings… and sorry folks, but as mentioned, this one is long!

We arrived by bus, 5 hours over insanely bumpy dirt roads. First curving up and along a high mountain ridge, deep valleys on both sides, next through a huge rice field in the middle of busy harvest, then for two hours through lush jungle. The solar panel equipment was tied to the roof.

We arrived in the dark and after an hour or so of faceless introductions and small talk the project coordinator, Suprabat, and I each jumped on the back of motorbikes and rode 30 minutes further into the jungle with the narrow beam of headlights revealing our only clues about these new surroundings, the village and our mountain side host’s home.

The community was extremely supportive and welcoming. This is not always the case for a variety of reasons on projects like these but we were lucky. The next day at the school I was a huge purple elephant with all eyes on me. They held an enormous ceremony at which I felt really embarrassed and lost under the weight of a dozen marigold garland necklaces. Many school officials and community elders spoke, they presented me with a hand written appreciation note, a lovely pink shawl (pashmina, of course) and dances by a few special star students. Then I danced. For a very long time. With everyone. It was required. The whole thing was kind and gracious but lacking any room at all for humility. I felt weird.

At Shree Jageshwor Secondary School in Borlang there are over 500 students, 14 teachers, one principal (a serious Brahmin named Mukti), one school helper (perhaps mentally challenged or just treated as such) and a school chairman (Bashu, also the community leader and “party man”). Some students walk up to 3 hours each way.

The installation process went very smoothly. Teachers helped and I basically watched until given the tools for significant moments (like attaching the light switch) or funny moments (like mixing some crazy tar-ish messy compound with my hands to seal the roof). I spent much of my time watching the girls rehearse their dances for the upcoming parents day performance.

Unfortunately mixing or talking with the students was a little unapproachable because there were so many of them and it was going to take longer than a few days for their curious stares, gaping jaws and speechlessness to soften. We didn’t get there.

But looking back, the entire adventure feels like a surreal blur and my memories are of the typical evenings socializing and specifically of their “cultural fundraising program”…

16-November-2007 (Friday)

I’ve been trying to catch up this journal for the last 2 days. Oddly my experience with the peace and potential “boredom” of village life has been so busy and social that I’ve had no time or energy for writing. Here I am, only a few days later and already the memory becomes clouded and confused.

Tuesday night the men left us to attend their “cultural fundraising program”. Wednesday night however they convinced us to join them. Bashu invited us innocently to accompany them for “an hour or two” of dancing. After dinner and drinks, we again climbed on two motorbikes and rode briefly through the dark jungle to a neighboring village where we parked beneath the silent black starlit sky and waited for the party to begin. At the meeting point, there was a huge bamboo swing, like those seen all over Nepal this time of year, which I learned are constructed purely for Dashain festival. While waiting, Bashu pushed me on the rope and knot swing and I soared high into the dark sky with only stars and the twisted and tied ends of long bamboo sticks shooting high up above. The image, with absolutely no time or place, was breaktaking and is forever frozen in my mind. As I swung higher and faster, I began a diagonal path - back to the right, forward and up to the left with my eyes fixed on the twinkling palette above. I felt giddy and young, engaged in one of life’s simple pleasures - a rickety swing on a dark starry night. Soon Suprabat and Recee arrived on their bikes.

The lights from the motobikes were used to illuminate our pow wow and we sat around on the ground waiting for the rest of the party - who/what - I didn’t know. In the meantime, we sang songs (Bob Marley tunes, “I’m Leaving on a Jet Plane”, the Eagles “Hotel California” again, and a local Nepali song that they taught me) and passed around a single bottle of beer. I felt like a teenager aimlessly passing another night in a small town (much like my own!) with friends and booze and anxious anticipation. Slowly more and more villagers began to arrive. A group of ladies came by foot using candle light, a 30 minute walk. A kerosene lamp joined the party and finally the hum of the bike engines and sharp piercing headlights left us in peace. More moving candles appeared from both directions of the dark trail and soon we had a group of 20 or so. Singing began. The same melody that now continues to play in my head, over and over, the traditional Nepali folk song - so customizable, only one tune is necessary. I can only associate it with the versatility of the blues. Then starts the dancing. Men spinning and bouncing in youthful circles. Some may be intoxicated but the carefree movements and uninhibited flailing comes from years of practice and deep heritage. This is their life, their pleasure, their culture. They dance.

But tonight they have a purpose. This seemingly mindless, festive night has been organized specifically and intentionally to raise funds for the school and to provide the staff with an adequate salary. The government funding is not nearly sufficient. It’s hard for me to see the sense and efficiency of the “program” but I try not to question their creative integration of culture, entertainment, community service, participation and needs.

The evening unfolds to reveal their level of commitment and dedication. I join them for a few dances. Snacks and more roxi (the local Nepali rice wine) appear from various pockets and supporters. Each person takes turns delivering their creative lyrics which are repeated in chorus with cheers. The enthusiastic school helper turns out to be a talented lyricist and crowd pleaser. Mukti, an otherwise mellow and calm (and certainly alcohol intolerant) guy, dances around with a motorcycle helmet on his head. He wears it all night yet he arrived by foot so I assume he is using it for warmth - though it could be his uncharacteristic explosive excitement that has him concerned for his own safety. Mahon, the lanky young inquisitive male teacher with a huge smile, dances precisely how his body type suggests it would - an arm-slinging, out-of-control spasm of pure enjoyment. Suprabat doesn’t dance. When finally persuaded to, later in the night, he also proves to move as his personna would suggest - stiff and lifeless, controlled and conscious of its every move, miserable in the unnatural effort. This incapacity to move freely and “enjoy the moment” and the dance makes me laugh and strengthens my opinion that his spiritual and philosophical ramblings are just that - a whole lot of talk. He’s a fresh enthusiastic student lacking practice or experience. Completely consumed by, and in this moment, strangled by his huge and needy ego.

[I go on a tangent here about my thoughts on Suprabat. Basically, he’s an incredibly nice guy, fantastic at his job with skills that make him a perfect fit, such as being a good conversationalist. But in doing so he talks a lot (too much for my taste), and often about philosophy and life that reveals an odd and slightly annoying immaturity which I associate with struggling to be a “modern man” in a slow changing, stifling Nepali society. I guess I’m “talking behind his back” because I would certainly hate if he found my website and read this. He was a truly great project facilitator and I was happy to have him by my side in this new strange land.]

So we dance under the stars, candles and a kerosene lamp, the only sources of light polluting the dark night sky. I quickly find and feel strange comfort in the familiar sight of The Little Dipper, the only constellation I easily recognize and have always been able to spot in all my travels. I’d have to check a globe but I believe I’ve never been south of the equator (though in Maldives I was just beneath it). Suprabat points to The Big Dipper and calls it “The Three Stars” and says that his mother can tell the time of day by them(!?).

For the last two hours, we have simply been warming up. Cheers erupt as two ladies approach, each carrying large three-foot round grass woven trays, their surface scattered with dry rice and various small banana leaf dishes arranged neatly inside - one filled with the red pigment and rice tikka mixture, one with heavy oil-soaked rings of roti (Nepali bread but more like deep fried rings of cornmeal), another with oil, a wick and a burning flame. The dishes are lovely and within the rice, there are cash rupee notes stacked. This is how the “fundraising” works. Donations are made in this method and the singing and lyrics express thanks but call for more, as there is never enough. After the arrival of the trays, we stay and dance for at least another hour. Members of the group add rupees to the pile. The cheerful, energetic village doctor makes a show of donating 500 Rs. There’s a sort of wild hysteria in the air and the strange, seemingly absurd, seriousness of their fundraising task makes me feel like I’m witnessing some remote, forgotten tribal ceremony. What’s next?! Will some one pull out a peace pipe and sacrifice a first born?! Not really… although I’m a bit lost and confused by their late night program, I’m not anxious or concerned. Somehow I trust these characters I just met. Their purpose and dedication is clear.

It’s midnight when the group appears to be making a move. We eat the bland, saturated, artery clogging roti and receive thick heavy tikkas (red dots with rice on our foreheads) while a few men repeatedly count the money - 2500 Rs (about $40). I can’t tell if they find this positive or negative, though one elderly man makes his dissatisfaction obvious by sitting himself on the ground and refusing to move until additional donations appear. My first interpretation was that this man was insanely drunk but actually I think he was just stubborn, old and committed to his cause.

Once the man is coaxed into moving, the group is in motion and I think we’re on our way home. Prasad (my host) even specifically asks us if we’re ready to end the evening or to continue on the with the group. To this, I believe we successfully expressed our fatique and readiness to call it a night. But I am so wrong!

I learn this when our group, walking with flashlights on jungle trails through the night, stops. The straw mats are spread out in front of an unfamiliar house and Mukti invites me to sit down. I think we must be making a quick stop. Another hour later, I realize that’s not true. Three more similar donation dishes have been laid on the ground and the energy level is still running high. There is no end in sight. The two alternating melodies (one traditional tune and another that I can only differentiate by the repetitive chorus “Duisire”, the Tihaar kid carolling favorite) have run their course with me. The roxi and few sips of beer have done so as well, sending me right off to dreamland. Mukti asks how I feel and I tell him “oh, a bit tired.” He seems surprised and relays this info to Bashu who blows it off saying “one more hour, you can make it right?” I roll my eyes & realize I’ve been duped. Mutki tries to console me saying “just a little longer, okay”? Okay, whatever. Seems my choices are a bit limited. To him, I just smile weakly. I rest my head on my knees and don’t resist when my eyes choose to “rest themselves” for a minute.

I awaken to commotion. Mulkti is sympathetically telling me I can go to bed now and helping me to my feet. I look across the group and see Suprabat shaking his head with a discouraging look. Confused, I get up to move. As I wake and come to my senses, I realize that they’ve arranged a bed for me to sleep in a this random house. They were concerned by my fatigue (and perhaps its negative affect on their program’s efforts) and came up with this solution. Suprabat is off to the side talking to someone, obviously uncomfortable with the plan. Candle lit faces are trying to convince me to go lie down. The grumpy gruff old man huffs, “this is the only bed for you to sleep in tonight,” which I want to dismiss as ridiculous and overly dramatic but it slowly starts to concern me that I really have no idea what is required by this serious, strenuous “program”. To decline, I follow Suprabat’s lead - that we want to support the group and though everyone is extremely tired, we don’t want to miss out and abandon the group. This is not really believed but accepted and I try to find new resolve and accept the unique situation. “I’m just sleepy people! Hello?! It’s 1:00 a.m. in the morning. I know you think you’re singing creative and original songs but to me, the untrained foreign ear, you’ve simply sang the same old song for the last 4 hours! And Basu, you big jerk, you tricked me! Two or three hours, my tired arse! So I’m a prisoner in your jungle, great!” And after my quiet mental tirade, I try to calm down, change my perspective and absorb the moment for what it is - a wildly unique and intriguing experience, full of surprise and wonder - exactly the type of thing one travels for! I try to engage myself back into the party. Then we move again. I think that the commotion has caused them to send me home. But not to worry… this is just another discovery about the program.

Basically what happens is the group of singers, community members, some teachers and staff go from house to house in the surrounding villages late into the night and next morning, waking the owners by singing and dancing at their doorstep until a tray of rice, a candle and a donation appears. Sometimes this is immediate, sometimes it takes a while and perhaps sometimes the cash pot is insufficient, explaining why some houses receive longer visits. I’m not sure… maybe their donation was so generous that they were graced with a longer performance. This night will remain mysterious! At each stop, money was counted, recounted and notes were made in a simple lined ledger. Earlier in the day, Bashu said happily that their program the previous night raised 40,000 rupees. Witnessing their system for collection, I am dumbfounded as to how this happened.

I feel like the rest of the night is all part of a crazy dream. I am sincerely happy to have been a part of it and in my half-conscious state at the time, a part of me appreciates the dedication and energy of the community and this unique opportunity for me to experience it; while the other part just keeps unwillingly nodding off. We probably go to 4 or 5 more houses, walking in a close supportive torch-lit group through small jungle trails. I decline more roxi offered to me at one house between my naps on their porch, where Suprabat to my right begins snoring loudly. At the next stop, he’s wide awake and clapping again while I’m offered another random bed which again I gently decline. At last, Suprabat’s patience is spent and he awakens me and says to follow him, we’re going home. I’m confused as the group is still going strong but follow him towards a trail nodding graciously at the singing ladies as we make our escape.

As we walk, I gain my senses and hit him with questions: “how do you know where we’re going?!” “how did we get to leave suddenly?” “what’s going on?!” He doesn’t know where he’s going. We’re following Recee, his friend, who he convinced to help rescue us. The group planned to go at least another 20 minutes by foot away from Borlang - singing, dancing and waiting all the way. It was already 3 a.m. and we just couldn’t continue. I had given up and accepted our sleepless night but was suddenly extremely grateful at the new prospect of a warm bed.

We followed Recee through the jungle for about 20 minutes when we popped out beside the large bamboo swing where we began the wild night. We looked back across the hills and could see the candles and lamps in the distance. We waited for his brother, another conspirator, to join us but after ten minutes, he didn’t show up. With hesitation, but fueled by exhaustion and thoughts of blissful sleep, we piled all three of us on to his motorbike (me sandwiched in the middle) and drove another 20 minutes home. Recee was the same good driver that introduced me to their jungle madness the first night and again he delivered us safely home. However, it seemed I was watching myself from above and at a distance thinking, “what are you doing!? are you nuts?!” and how my poor parents would just die - I mean seriously, flip flops and a pink shawl as my riding gear! But then, in the next breath, there was the absolute reality that this was truly another world, “what else am I going to do?!” and it’s perhaps necessary to trust (not tempt!) fate. And so it was… 4:30 a.m., the end of an intensely interesting night!

We learned the next day that the ladies continued their hard work until 8 a.m. in the morning. This information was received from teachers who gave their support all night and were there at school the next day. At noon, Bashu arrived saying he slept only two hours last night and had just returned from collecting more funds from extending villages by motorbike. So imagine that. The community spends all this energy once every decade in a creative effort to support their children’s educators. It’s not Girl Scout cookies, car washes or bake sales but it’s certainly more dedication and commitment towards any type of fundraising than I’ve ever seen. So I feel both fortunate and honored because, culturally, they were very proud and happy to share it with me.

Posted in Nepal