Freeze this Moment

This thought first ran through my mind with the potency of a thunderbolt when I was being sucked along on the wildest adventure of my life, the Panchkroshi Yatra. I was in a river of people being pulled along with the momentum of the moment. Not a clue where I was, where I was going, but sure that I was in the right spot. The 80 something kilometer Yatra (Pilgrimage) began at midnight, I was barefoot, along with all the Indians who rose out of the shadows around me with yells of “Bom Bom Bole” whooping at the top of their lungs surging forward with the energy only created by thousands and thousands of people working towards one goal. Receiving Darshan, and reaching the end. Sadly my two attempts to write this story were erased because the computer crashed twice and the word documents were lost when the computer was totally rebooted. It’s a story to get from me personally.
This thought, “Freeze this moment” is no longer unique. Sometimes, I feel like I’m an insider on my own personal joke. How did I get here? In situations where I’m surrounded by local people, that very few other foreigners get to experience. I’m not just an observer; I’m a participator, acting out the lives of the amazing people that I meet. One of the highlights of my stay in Jiri was this:
In Subodh’s families village in the hills above Jiri the women gather together and weed one person’s field in one day. It’s like the barn raisings that at one time were common in our own country. This has a lot of benefits, there’s little money in these places, almost all the food is grown for their own consumption, and this eases the burden on the individual farmers, many whose husbands are in other places working. Weeding is much more fun when you do it with friends and family.
Subodh’s mother left after the morning meal while I was still eating, she was late to meet the other women. I didn’t join until around 3 PM, where as they all met at 10 AM. When I arrived I got to take part in this great example of teamwork. We lined up along the fields, which have the small millet plants planted underneath the larger corn stalks that are getting near harvest time. Squatting, we went through the fields in rows, side by side, laughing joking and throwing weeds at each other. The women were all so light hearted about their work, even after a day of rain. There was one man who picked up the weeds after we piled them behind us.
Just as we were beginning the last field the deluge began. A couple of women ran to get the plastic bags that are used as rain jackets here. All over the villages in Nepal people use large sized plastic bags as raincoats. These were ingeniously fitted with woven bamboo so they resembled blue plastic books. They have straps on the inside for the head. All the women covered themselves with these, I had my raincoat. Bent double, it looked like giant books were busy weeding the last field as the clouds climbing the mountainsides shrouded the world and made it seem like the terraces dropped off into the oblivion.
One of the women that I was talking with asked me if I liked Nepali songs, traditional Nepali songs are absolutely beautiful, thus I love them. One of the highlights of taking the local buses in Nepal are listening to Nepali songs blasted on blown out speakers for hours and hours on end. She asked me if I could sing any songs, which, although my Nepali is getting better and better every day, I can’t. I can sing along with some of the easier and catchier ones when they’re playing but that’s it. I told her I could sing an English song and started singing. She cut me short and started singing in Nepali, “It’s raining, we’re weeding a millet field…” Nepali is a beautiful language and it can be sung as well as spoken. We began to just sing about what we were doing, trying to be heard over the noise of the rain beating against the plastic. Everyone laughed along with us over the drone of the rain.
We finished the last field and walked single file on the trail back to the field owner’s home. There we were served “Bulu” and Chai. I took “Bulu” or “Chang” in Nepali; it is the local grain alcohol. I’ve gotten to taste Chang made from rice, corn, and now on this occasion millet. These local alcohol’s are usually thick with the grain still in them and quite tasty. The rain was torrential, Ama, two other women, one who was family and the blue eyed man all were sitting in the houses unattached kitchen building, chatting and drinking our warm beverages.
Sitting in this small building on hand-woven mats made from corn husks, laughing with people whose story is so different than mine was so special. Somehow we got to joking about how the blue eyed man was my Nepali father, we joked about how it could be that he’s my father when he’s so small and I’m so big. We decided that he is in fact my long lost father and I’m Nepali after all. One woman was telling me how her sister lives in the U.S. with her husband. This prompted me to talk about the U.S. and how it’s “Another world” the realities are so drastically different it’s almost impossible for me to describe with my limited vocabulary, but I do my best. I told them how special Nepal is, how much love I felt from Subodh’s mother after only a week. How all over Nepal people are so loving and kind to me. I was getting emotional, sometimes it seems like my words carry so much weight even though I’m limited to such a simple vocabulary. This was one of those moments that made me think, “Freeze thus moment.” Subodh’s mother turned to me and said, “If you couldn’t speak Nepali we wouldn’t have any idea of who you are, and you wouldn’t have any idea of who we are, we would never be able to talk or get to know each other. Now I know who you are and it’s easy for me feel love for you.”
Language is the key to culture. This moment just affirmed this belief. People usually are so happy to hear me speaking their language, especially in Nepal. I'm told "Thank you" almost daily by people.