The Final Puja

Our next stop is the Buddhist stupa of Boudhanath.

The ancient stupa is one of the largest in the world. The influx of large populations of refugees from Tibet has seen the construction of over 50 Tibetan monasteries around Boudhanath. As of 1979, Boudhanath is a UNESCO World Heritage site. Along with Swayambhunath, it is one of the most popular tourist sites in the Kathmandu area. The stupa is said to entomb the remains of Kassapa Buddha.

A festival was being held the day we were there. We wander around the monolithic stupa bedecked with strands of prayer flags which stretch from the top of the towering shrine to its lowest terrace. Shops line the circular street which surrounds the white bulbous structure. We decide to stop for lunch so we settle into a corner table at a roof-top cafe with an astounding view of the stupa and enjoy a veggie burger and a “cool” drink.

A band in British-styled uniforms play bagpipes as they parade around the circle. They are followed by a number of floats with interesting groupings of characters on board. One features Buddhist monks and a furry over-sized tiger! Hundreds of school children and celebrants follow behind each float cheering, waving flags, and singing.

Refreshed, we walk from Bhoudanath to Pashupatinath, a Hindu temple about a half hour’s walk through residential areas and city streets. People call to us to to stop at their shops and school children often say “Hallo” as we meet them coming home from the day’s classes. And of course there are the ever-present dogs and cows and scooters weaving in and around us as always in the dusty street. 

Naturally, Paul and Eva have their own “private” entrance to the temple to avoid a fee! It involves entering through an open field where people are pseudo-picnicing amongst the litter, then climbing/sliding down a steep dirt path at which point Eva calls to us from behind that she has dropped her lens cap. 

I am now half-way down the vertical dirt path in front of everyone. (I cannot imagine how or why that happened.) The boys go back to help Eva retrieve her camera cap, which has scooted down into some brush along the path. I am now alone when I notice two men staring up at me from below along the riverbank as if it wasn’t every day they see a huge white woman sliding down a remote jungle hillside towards them!

A minute later a monkey is coming right at me up the trail and all I can remember is Paul telling me about one attacking him in Cambodia and Vic telling me about the travel clinic nurse warning him of rabid animals in India! Then from some remote reaches of my brain I think I remember an Animal Planet episode where they tell you not to make eye contact? Or was it the one where you’re supposed to not move or breathe? Or was it that you’re supposed to scream and scare off the attacker? What to do? Naturally I just panic and yell to the kids that I’m being quickly approached by a vicious Marmoset!

We finally (safely) reach the river (the one I mentioned earlier which runs through the temple). Of course it is at this point that Paul starts to explain how we’re on the wrong side of the river (since we came in through the “No Admittance” approach) and we’ll need to cross over at some point to access the temple.

Thankfully, Eva starts laughing and says, “Don’t worry. There’s a bridge.” Although a river crossing would have been just what I expected to happen at that particular juncture after having rappelled down a sheer mountainside and averting a near-miss with a rabid monkey. Not that it would have bothered me after all the “wading” I’ve done thus far.

We walk along the river to the center of the temple which rises high above both sides of the slowly flowing stream. We find a spot on the many steps and get comfortable.

A family is preparing for a funeral on one of the many pyres that line the water’s edge. For the next hour or so we are witness to the somber ceremony. Men wet the straw, then take the body away to a place we can’t see and return shortly. The wife and young woman go to the river and bring water to sprinkle on the body. The men place the body on a cloth, carry it around the pyre three times, then place it on the accumulation of wood that forms a platform.

The moon is rising now and it would appear that men gather on the steps to talk in the evenings while monkeys cavort around them and a bony cow stands at the edge of their conversation as if listening in.

After dark, we make our way over to a platform that overlooks the river. A man is playing and singing and there are three small tables at the edge of the concrete expanse laid out with a variety of paraphernalia and a rug that is folded out in front of each.

Soon three young men in robes take their places on the rugs and an evening puja begins to honor and praise the major deities. The men first call the people to praise by blowing conch shells, then celebrate to the music with a variety of flaming elements, one of which is a beautiful brass tree-like symbol as well as a vessel with a python-like top. They sprinkle flower petals and dispense incense as they move to the upbeat music and celebrants clap their hands and raise their arms at times during the ritual (including us “whites.”) On the opposite shore three little girls dance rhythmically to the beat of the music as their parents watch from their places on the steep steps as if we’re all at a summer concert in the park.

At the end of the puja, we are each given petals to take down the scores of steps to drop into the river. When we climb back up to our step-seats we are given pieces of fruit, which I do NOT consume, but decide to leave for the hungry monkeys. It is good to make friends with the monkeys, I conclude.

After this moving conclusion to an event-filled day in Kathmandu, we celebrate our last evening in Nepal at a “western” restaurant called Fire and Ice with a PIZZA and a BROWNIE!

Over glasses of wine, we toast each other, the many kind and gracious and giving people who have welcomed us into their hearts and homes, the land we have come to understand and adore, the days we have lived through and loved, and the exquisite memories we have created during our Passage to India.

“For the one who knows how to look and feel . . .every moment of this free wandering life is an enchantment.”                    Alexandra David-Néel, Tibetan Journey

GOOD MORNING KATHMANDU!

As the sun rises over the busy city, I can hear shutters being pushed open across the narrow street from my second-floor room at the Paradise. Dogs begin to yip as bicycles show up on the dawn-welcoming streets. Vendors sweep stoops and children begin to run down the soon-to-be bustling thoroughfares.  One of the (many) things I love about this special place is the way everything is so OPEN. Unlike our nailed down, buttoned up, shut tight lives, everything here opens out to the beauty of the world around and about it.

But back to the hot shower. Relishing the idea I step into our little tiled “bath”room (granted BATHING has been more the exception that the rule in these so-called rooms), I find out (later) that the water is SOLAR heated which would mean (Paul) that the water gets WARM (notice I do not use the word hot) as the SUN gets UP, which early in the morning it is NOT. Translation: no hot shower. Why am I not surprised?

However, the early hours do bring us a lovely good ‘ole American (sort of) breakfast at an adorable outdoor cafe. Paul is disappointed that the newspaper has more actual news than those in Delhi, where we often read about five people being stabbed to death by a groom’s family for the lack of an appropriate dowry or of a woman being hacked into pieces with an electric saw only to be interrupted by the nightly power outage. Seriously, one account relayed the story of a woman who was found in a freezer mid-hack-job due to the loss of power to the saw being used for the job! Paul greatly enjoyed this much more “colorful” journalism than that found in the Kathmandu daily!

We grab a cab to the first stop of the day at Swayambhu, one of the largest and most important buddhist stupas in all of Nepal.

The stupa, or Buddhist shrine, looks a bit like a white upside down funnel. It is known in most guidebooks as the Monkey Temple, (named by the hippies who had come in the 60s) for the hundreds of monkeys running around the site. They’re everywhere and often in hordes! The smaller ones are like large, nimble cats; the larger ones are the size of toddlers!

It’s Buddha’s birthday(!) so we, and a gazillion other celebrants, climb the 365 steps to the top, but there we are rewarded with a spectacular view of the city. Can you find me?

Legend has it that at the base of the hill where the temple was ultimately built, the Bodhisattva Manjushri, an enlightened being who predated Buddha, had a vision of a lotus flower in the lake, at the site of Swayambhunath. Recognizing the place as worthy of pilgrimage, he cut a gash in the hills to drain the lake, making the Kathmandu Valley into habitable land.

Archaeologists, while reserving judgment on just how the site was created, agree that it has existed in some form for more than 1,500 years. On the top of the hill, in addition to the 65-foot-diameter, 100-foot-tall white stupa, is a mini village with myriad statues, small temples, a monastery, monks and monkeys, all wrapped up in a tangle of colorful Tibetan Buddhist prayer flags, which, with each gust of wind, spread prayers and compassion. We now stand at a focal point for Nepalese faith, religion, legend, and culture.

We make our way through the winding walkways performing our rites of merit as we turn the many prayer wheels at hand. Small fires burn around every corner where people wave handfuls of smoke into their faces and leave small tokens or fistfuls of rice as a gift to the gods.

As we walk down a different path back to the street, a crowd of people have gathered around three policemen. Paul investigates and gets a glimpse of an old man who has apparently died on the street. In a moment of such gravity, I literally turn from the scene and meet face-to-face a young man with a tee shirt bearing the bright bold letters KPMG. This is the international accounting firm that Vince worked for in Nashville!

SMALL(?) world!

Welcome to Kathmandu

We arrive in Kathmandu in the late afternoon, walk to a place called Freak Street (aptly named) and check into our “budget” (what else) guest house appropriately labeled Monumental Paradise (seriously – I kid you not!) Paul promises there will be a hot shower!

 Kathmandu ((Nepali: काठमांडौ) is the capital and, with close to one million inhabitants, the largest metropolitan city of Nepal. The city’s rich history is nearly 2,000 years old. Its religious affiliation is primarily Hindu but there is also a Budhist population as well.  The city is named after a structure in Durbar Square called Kasthamandap. In Sanskrit, Kastha is “wood” and Mandap is “covered shelter.” This unique temple was built in 1596 by King Laxmi Narsingh Malla. The two-story structure is made entirely of wood, using no iron nails or supports. Legend has it that the timber used for this pagoda was obtained from a single tree. 

Eight rivers flow through the city. The Bagmati river originates at Bagdwaar, also known as the Dwar Gate. The water flows out through a gargoyle shaped like a tiger’s mouth in the northern hills of the Kathmandu valley. The mountain streams that cascade over boulders become a wide, swiftly flowing river, with a high load of suspended solids, giving the river a grey appearance. A number of resistant rock strata interrupt the flow down the valley, among these is the outcrop that the Pashupatinath Temple is built upon. (We will encounter the river here later.)

Kathmandu’s most famous street from the hippy overland days of the 60s and 70s is Freak Street. Its real name is Jochne but since the days of visiting “freaks” it has been better known as Freak Street. In its prime, the street’s squalor and beauty was irresistible. The smell of sweet incense, children fluttering prayer wheels, cheap hotels (I’m beginning to question the hot shower?), ad hoc restaurants and shops selling enlightenment, were standard sights on Freak Street. Not surprisingly, it made an instant rapport with the dusty-haired “freaks” who gave the street its name. Love-ins are a thing of the past, but the street’s history and plum position in the heart of old Kathmandu makes it a popular destination for young people and budget travelers (and that would DEFINITELY be us!)

We drop our bags at Paradise and head out to explore the streets (Freak and otherwise) that surround the huge square and bazaar that lies just around the corner from our digs. We pass the Palace of the Living Goddess. The Hindu kingdom of Nepal is not only the land of many mountain peaks, but also many gods and goddess, unique among all of them being the living, breathing goddess – Kumari Devi, a deified young girl. The custom of worshipping a pre-pubescent girl, who is not a born goddess, as the source of supreme power is an old Hindu-Buddhist tradition that continues to this day. Girls from 4 to 7 of a certain Sakya community are screened on the basis of 32 attributes of perfection, including the color of eyes, shape of teeth, and even voice quality. After a ritual of some sort, one of the young girls is chosen and the spirit of the goddess enters her body. She is given the title of Kumari Devi, and is worshipped on religious occasions. She lives in the palace until reaching puberty when a search for a new goddess begins!

We climb up near the top of a pagoda in the square and sit for an hour or so just trying to take it all in. Paul comments, “It’s a little like Where’s Waldo!” The area is called Basanthapur. 

A cool, cloudless sunset deposits a warm glow around and about the ancient Asian buildings replete with intricate wood carvings and stories-high tiered roofs trimmed in delicate lacy edges. A mosaic of vegetable and fruit vendors spread their wares on neatly aligned squares of colorful cloth in symmetrical rows while porters with mountainous bales and bundles on their backs stop for a rest at intervals around the square.

We leave the busy square and wander through the winding streets as dusk descends. We stop and load up on tea and vegetable masala in a tiny spice shop which is redolent with the aromas of India.

We walk on as night falls to an ex-pat hangout called OR2K. (Another movie moment. I swear we’re going to encounter Harrison Ford somewhere on this trip. We have been LIVING an Indiana Jones movie for the past three weeks!)

We leave our shoes at the door and we find our way to a low table surrounded by huge open windows flanked with fluttering floor to ceiling drapes. Each table sits on a richly hued carpet and is surrounded by large colorful pillows. We lounge around our table and indulge in the sultry wafts of cooking food emanating from behind heavy curtains.

Paul and Eva comment, “Too many whites.” This is not the first time we’ve heard this comment from the pair. They love India for its natural habitat not that of American and Euro intruders – although that is precisely what WE are! My comment: “No one in here doesn’t have dreadlocks.”

The hummus was perfection, the salad was divine (GREENS!), and the ACTUAL ICED tea was maybe the best tasting beverage I have ever consumed (wait, with the exception of that mango shake that hot night in Delhi).

This time with Vic and Paul and Eva has been nothing less than priceless and cherished. Who knows if we will ever again have this kind of “talk time” in this unique way. We have covered a lot of territory in the conversations we’ve enjoyed amongst the long walks in the city as well as up and down the mountain. It has been especially nice to more fully understand Eva’s work and to be able to see it in action.

After a shared warm chocolate lava cake, we slip into our shoes and take a late night stroll past “cute little shops” on our way back to Paradise.

UP and DOWN

After a sleepless night battling what seemed to be every living gnat in Nepal we headed UP the mountain (again) to Hasera, along with a host of village school children on their way to the day’s instruction. Little boys in shirts and ties and little girls in (uncharacteristically traditional) plaid skirts clamber over the rocky path to their classroom a good way up the incline.

As always I am grateful for the opportunity to rest my weary lungs (my respiratory capacity was much improved after this trip) at the grandmother’s house on our way up the mountain. Here again, we are welcomed with parting gifts and farewell ceremonies. Each of us is blessed with a tikka as a prayer for safe travel as we begin our journey home. Pronounced teeka (टिका) the forehead mark is a mixture of abir (a redpowder), yogurt, and grains of rice. The tikka is applied with the thumb, in a single upward stroke. The tikka symbolizes the third eye, associated with many Hindu deities and the idea of meditation and spiritual enlightenment.  The boys are presented a proper Nepali man’s hat. Vic placed his own fedora momentarily on Govinda’s sister’s head and the utter delight in her eyes was simply priceless.

Back at the farmhouse, there seems to be a somber mood amongst the family. We soon learn that during the night Mitthu had received a phone call that her niece’s husband had drowned. Soon after our arrival, Mitthu must head down to the road to catch a bus to visit her family. It was certainly not the good-bye I had imagined and we both hold on to each other as only mothers can when faced with the harsh realities of life and loss. After her departure, Eva explains that not only is this a loss of a husband, it is a difficult future for Mitthu’s niece. A young widow with children is not likely to find a new husband eager to embrace the situation. This event places a dark cloud over the young woman’s journey forward.

With heavy hearts we pack our things, have yet another generous meal, welcome five Israeli guests who plan to spend the night, then shoot our final group photos under the heavily-laden plum tree (still mad we’re missing THAT harvest!) Paul and Eva head up the mountain behind the house to get one last documentary photo of their time at Hasera. 

We promise Bibek and Bigyan that we will certainly return some day and that we will without a doubt hold these days in our hearts forever.

We make our way down the hill to the road and to our great good fortune an EMPTY goat truck picks us up and we enjoy a breezy ride to Banepa where we will get a bus to Kathmandu—our last stop on this incredible journey.

Unforgettable Moments

The day is waning. Our days at Hasera are numbered. On this last evening, we have been invited to join Vishnu and his family for a “slumber party.” As we gather some things in our backpacks for our last hike down the mountain, I can see that Mitthu and the boys are looking at us with sad eyes and wishful faces. Eva whispers to me that they are not happy that we won’t be spending this final evening with them.

I am reminded of summers on the farm when my “city cousins” would come to visit. Visitors were few in the backwoods of Western Kentucky and when my Aunt’s brood descended on us from Chicago, marveling at our wandering chickens and rejoicing in the wooden swing suspended from the substantial limb of our huge oak tree, I was elated. When I saw the look on Bibek’s and Bigyan’s faces, I recalled, with vivid emotion, standing in the gravel driveway of our little white farmhouse waving goodbye to  a carful of cousins who carried away with them the memory of a summer day of playful joy—one that would not be repeated for another long year.

Perhaps you will recall Vishnu’s story (see Tater Day post) of personal struggle. Paul and Eva explain to us, as we make our final descent, that this invitation to his home is a sort of social coup. To have international guests to his home for dinner and to have them spend the night with the family is a privilege few, amongst his neighbors and peers, are privy to.

The evening sky deepens as we approach the house. We are welcomed by Vishnu and Kolpana, two boisterous little boys, and my lovely “tater day” friend Kopila, who is helping with the preparation of dinner.

Vishnu’s home is simpler than the structure at Hasera. We enter into the small kitchen and eating area. A low ceiling and one window create an intimate environment for the eight of us. Kolpana, Vishnu’s wife, is slicing vegetables on the floor as we arrive. I was fascinated with this slicing tool. Mitthu uses one as well.

The women place the slicer on the floor, use their foot to keep it stable, then “push” the vegetables against the blade with great skill and speed, I might add. I wanted to try it, but never got the opportunity (probably all for the best in terms of the sanctity of my much-needed digits).

Just as we get settled on the floor, the electricity is shut down for the night. So Kolpana places several candles around the room and the flickering warmth from the small flames puts us all in a frame of mind indicative of our emotions.

(These are the spices being prepared for the kir.)

As I sit and watch these kind, lovely women cook a special meal for us over a galvanized single pot cooker fired by wood and sawdust, I am overcome with the images of where we have been, the people we have come to know, and the experiences we have shared along the way.

Kolpana and Kopila are preparing kir on the mud and clay stove in the corner of the room. The heat fills the space quickly and a trickle of smoke escapes through the roof. The walls are a rich red clay color. The ceiling beams are darkened black with smoke. In the room is a wooden bench, a small chest which houses the utensils and spices, and a small table. Kolpana and Kopila man the two cookers as they squat on the packed dirt floor.

 Kolpana shows us how she prepared the pakoda, a small vegetable patty molded together with buckwheat flour. The kir is a HEAVENLY concoction of rice, coconut, sugar, dates and cashews! We had been awaiting this promised delicacy all week and it was everything we had hoped for!

Vic found his pitch pipe in his bag and the youngest son had a ball playing it before dinner. The oldest son is quiet and apparently first in his class at school (Vishnu tells us with great pride and a beaming smile.)

Vishnu pitches in to complete the dinner and Kolpana serves us as we all form a circle on our woven mats. Water is always served in small tin cups from a brass or copper ewer. Over dinner, Vishnu tell us more of his personal story, which once again elicits strong emotions as he relays how he has had to grapple with poverty, prejudice and the battle to regain his place in the community.

As we finally convince Kolpana that we have eaten to the point of popping, Paul asks Vic to give us a song. (Spoiler: breakdown soon to come.) He chooses, I’ll Be Seeing You In All The Old Familiar Places, and renders a lovely baritone rendition which brings me to tears. Vishnu breaks into the sweetest smile and says softly, “This is an unforgettable moment.” I could not have said it better myself.

After dinner we are shown to our rooms on the second floor. They are nice and gaily appointed with inspirational posters featuring European houses and abundant gardens! The tiny rooms each have beds covered with heavy quilts and unfortunately “stone-like” pillows (but that would be the least of my worries.)

We sit and talk for an hour or so before we snuggle into our respective sleepers. I give Vic the mosquito net bed (big mistake) since he’s so uncomfortable, beleaguered by his staph flare-up. Paul and Eva take the other room, which also is draped with netting.

A few short hours into the sleep cycle, I am BOMBARDED by mosquitos. I swat, I flip, I switch ends of the bed, I pull the covers up on my head, I sit up, I lie back down, I eventually start flailing my arms out of total desperation at which point I hear Vic LAUGHING! My reply is not fit for public posting, but needless to say I found MIRTH at a time like this less than endearing. He could actually hear them outside his net. Yes, well I could personally ATTEST to their presence and for MOST of this very LONG night.

After a bountiful breakfast, the youngest provided us with pure, unadulterated entertainment, making music through a water pipe, playing badminton with Pawan Sir (the respectful designation for someone older than the children, as in Paul), and climbing and chasing the shuttlecock over hills and rooftops like a bolt of lightning. He was ADORABLE.

Kopila placed a bracelet on my wrist as a going-away gift and a flower in my hair as a gesture of friendship before we took our leave.

We took group photos and Paul left his crocs for Vishnu, who had admired them on a previous occasion.

We bid them a tearful goodbye and thank them with utmost sincerity for a TRULY unforgettable visit.

The Priest and the Puja

This will be our last full day in Hasera.

After Eva’s morning training session, we all prepare to head down to Govinda’s family home for an afternoon puja.

A puja (pronounced poozha) is a Hindu religious ritual performed as an offering to various deities, distinguished persons, or special guests. It is done on a variety of occasions and settings, from daily puja done in the home, to temple ceremonies and large festivals, or to begin a new venture.

This afternoon we are going down to join the family for a puja after the village priest has blessed the fields.

We arrive at the homes of Govinda’s mother and brother (which stand only a few yards apart) and wait for the men and the priest to return to the houses from the fields.

Everyone is somewhat excited as we arrive. It seems that a new calf had been born that morning! We soon learn that this is a special event and one that is celebrated with family and friends for such good fortune. So we all traipse back to the cow shed (which isn’t far mind you, since it’s connected to the house) and have the first viewing of the new baby. He IS totally cute and making his way around the shed on spindly, wobbly legs.

We wend out way back to the porch of the grandmother’s house, enjoying the company of several cousins, nieces, and nephews who have gathered for the day-long affair. About a half-hour later, Govinda’s sister-in-law (and the owner of the new baby calf) brings us a small leaf/bowl filled with what sort of looks like crumbled feta cheese.She offers each of us the delicacy with a joyful smile and a shared sense of excitement.

Eva explains that the owner of the new calf creates this concoction from the first milk after the calf is born and then shares it with friends and neighbors!

Paul politely replies, “Oh, don’t worry about us. You want to be sure to have enough for everyone to enjoy. We don’t want to deplete your supply.”

“Oh no, there is plenty,” she answers. “Please, please!” she implores, encouraging us all to take part in this honored ritual of new life in the family. (We really should be used to this by now, but then again, to be honest, nothing that’s been shoved at us before has ever been in quite this category.)

Paul takes the tiny “leaflet” and consumes a couple of morsels. Vic boldly accepts the bowl from Paul and quickly tosses back a couple of kernels of what Paul quickly dubbs, “chunky dairy afterbirth.” (I was doing fine until he felt the need to conjure up this visual.) However, I bravely drop two nibbles into my mouth as well. We were all pleased to find that it really wasn’t too bad—as the proverbial saying goes, it was just the “thought” that was difficult to “swallow.”

Soon the men and the priest are seen coming up the mountain from the fields below.

They join us on the porch and the priest pronounces a blessing upon each of us by placing a tikka on our foreheads and a braided bracelet around our wrists! It’s amazing how much fun you can have with a group of people who have no idea what the other persons are saying or doing. But it’s obvious, even without the benefit of language, that everyone here is praying for a good harvest and the well-being of family and friends in a most earnest Nepali way.

Eva and I had been talking about several items that were to be on the menu that day. At one point as we are sitting on the porch between the houses, she tells me to go into the kitchen to watch the preparation of the dish we had been discussing. I ask if she is coming and she says she “can’t.” I’m bemused at her response but I join Mitthu and the others in the kitchen to observe the creation of several delectables which are being prepared. Then . . I remembered that Eva was on her period and that precluded  her ability to join us in the kitchen. I find myself astounded to be witness to such an ancient taboo being carried out here in the 21st century.

When it was time for us to share the meal, Eva had to take her food away from the women in the kitchen so we “camped out” in the potato room. I decided to join her, feeling not to would have been traitorous. The custom normally would be for one of the women to put her food down on the floor without making contact with Eva. However, Mitthu does not abide by the strictest of traditions in many of these more rigid old-school performances. She handed each of us our plates with a knowing smile, acknowledging her role in our private conspiracy.

We head back up the mountain with some new friends in tow. Two of the twin’s cousins accompany us back up the trail to Hasera. Vic and I spend the rest of the afternoon visiting with the family. Paul and Eva are off to seek out a local blacksmith so that Paul can investigate taking some hand-hewn tools back to the states.

This will be our final night on the mountain. As the sun drops behind the majesty of the Himalayans on the horizon, we each pack an overnight bag.  Our sweet friend Vishnu has invited us to spend the night with him and his family. We will join them for an “unforgettable evening” at their home before we depart in the morning for Kathmandu and the ultimate conclusion of our Passage to India.

Nepali Girl Power

It is our last full day at Hasera.

The sunrise brings the bittersweet morning of our final communion with this family that we have come to know and love during our time in this place we would never have expected to be. The chipper voices of the twins float one last time through my shuttered bedroom window. The soft mooing of the family cow drifts into my consciousness as I awaken to yet another clear breaking of dawn that illuminates the majestic Himalayas in the distance. And as always, the day brings new adventure.

It is Saturday. And the women in Eva’s farming program will be arriving today for a session! I am thrilled that I will get the opportunity to experience the group’s get-together before we leave Hasera. I have heard so much about the work and the challenges from Eva as she has shared her experiences with us via blog and email.

Eva has truly been “the change she wishes to see in the world.” She has outwardly exhibited an inward desire to take the knowledge she and Paul garnered from farmers and environmentalists all over southeast Asia and shared that with the women of this Nepali village. To be able to bear witness to this monumental work for myself has been nothing short of astounding. When the two of them left on their amazing adventure right after college, I would never have imagined where their travels would lead them and certainly never dreamed that I would ever be a part of it as well.

Mid-morning, women in glittering, colorful kurtas and saris can be seen walking up the steep path to the training building just beneath the house. Their day began hours earlier with morning chores that must be accomplished before they can take the time to attend the training session. Eva explains that when they initiated the program, the numbers were few, but as word spread and those in attendance shared their new-found skills and understanding of the methods and mission of the project, more and more village women joined the group.

I can see the emotion in Eva’s eyes as the women get settled on the floor and look to the front of the room where she and Govinda today are showing a film about the effects of harmful pesticides to the food supply in Nepal. They greet me with huge smiles and kind gestures of welcome. I can see the obvious pride in their faces that they are a part of something important for their families and larger than their own circle of influence and I am humbled by their courage and commitment.

 These are women with little freedom and very limited independence. Eva had told us before about women who came once, then didn’t show up again. She knew that often husbands made it difficult for them to attend or discouraged them from participation. But despite the barriers, the program has thrived and now the group has established a significant seed bank, the women have learned planting and soil prep techniques, they have visited neighboring farms and observed lectures and demonstrations that have given them tools with which to enliven and improve their farms. They have also gained confidence individually and as a group as they have witnessed together the strength that comes from that most powerful force: female friendship and support. Girl power absolutely FILLED the room and burst through the rafters as I watched these amazing women talk and laugh and exude an innate energy as they no doubt are coming to realize that they are a part of something that will have a dramatic effect on their way of life.

 

{Paul was in attendance this spring when new seed shelving arrived and was able to help get the cabinets UP the driveway to Hasera!}

{I LOVE this photo of Eva and friends doing some weeding!}

A most interesting observation from Eva came later this day as we sat together and talked about the project that afternoon. She talked about the revelation that we, as American women, cannot fathom never being asked for our opinion.  Here is commentary from Eva’s blog about this unique encounter and resulting conclusion:

April 16th’s FFS Session provided us with invaluable insight into how to move forward from here.  One of the main principles for us in implementing the Farmers Field School is to have it be designed by and for the women as much as possible.  This means being open to their feedback constantly.  This depends on them utilizing their voice.  In her book “The Blue Sweater,” Jaqueline Novogratz shares a story from her time working in Kenya.  Gathering to paint their new shop, she and the women spent a day painting it a bright blue.  After hours of signing and painting they stood back to admire their work.  ”It’s beautiful,” one woman said, “but you know, our color is green.”  If you have never been asked for your opinion before, how do you know how to respond when someone actually genuinely asks for your input.

Up until this point, we have had several open group discussions and encouraged the women to tell us what they would like to learn during the next several months.  What is necessary for them? What are the challenges they are facing and how can we help them meet those challenges and move forward successfully.

On April 16th we gave each women 15 maize seeds and let them into the training hall where 44 stainless steel cups and bowls, each with a different label were placed on tables, windowsills and shelves. We asked them to vote for the topics they were most interested it.

Now, it is not anonymous, but it was the first time they had the choice of what they wanted to learn.

The topics ranged from women’s rights, community leadership and management to water management to soil health to marketing.

In all of the discussions we have had until this point, the agricultural issues took precedence.  But on this day, the highest scoring topics were ALL related to women’s reproductive health and women’s rights.

Interesting.  Very interesting.  It was exciting to feel like we are getting more authentic answers and makes me grateful that we have several months to go deeper to really find out what the needs are in this village amongst these women.

After this “survey” we walked around HASERA to introduce the experiments happening on the farm, to familiarize the women with the plots that they will be able to observe.  You may be wondering why the women were not involved in the actual land preparation, well, some were, we brought compost from some of their homes, but these women have enough on their plate, now is planting time for maize, time to get land ready, seeds in the ground, there is not enough water to irrigate the potatoes which will be ready to be harvested in another two weeks so there is a time table for the farmers to have access to water which means some are watering their fields in the middle of the night.  We felt it was our duty to put the labor into preparing the experimental plots and their work will be to watch what happens.

I had to chuckle when I read this on Eva’s blog, since at the time of its writing, Eva (nor Vic and I) would have any idea that WE would be a part of this year’s potato harvest!

Since we have been back in the US, Eva has organized and implemented, with the help of the local hospital and medical staff, some women’s “health camps” designed to educate the women about their bodies and unique health concerns and to set up the opportunity for many women to have needed surgeries and treatments.  When I saw Eva a few weeks ago in New York, she told me that nearly 600 women attended a recent camp!

If you would like to read more about the work that Eva has been involved with in her time in Nepal, visit her blog at http://seed-for-life.org/.

Only a few posts left to be created. I think I’ve delayed these last few so as not to have to leave the journey behind. I will miss the re-living of these days of “unforgettable moments.” More on that in the next installment of A Passage to India.