So Rajan would not be leaving for Dubai the next day, not for
another month. “No big deal, just a month, plans change, things are relaxed.” - or so I thought at the time. People have an incredible abi
lity to mask what is really burning inside. All of the complexities of ones life- the thoughts, the sadness, the anxiety, the history, the
headaches, the tears- they are kept ridden away from plain sight for the most part and only revealed with time and the emotional bonding that sheds the thick skin of superficiality.
It turns out that at the time Rajan was still not even fully prepared for his journey across seas. Rajan family had been searching desperately for a way to pull enough cash together to make his trip possible. As time passed I would learn more and more about the hardships Rajan and his family faced, but on the surface it was a time to make merry. The festival of Dossain was approaching and their family had invited Jon and I to their village to celebrate with them. Without hesitation I accepted their invitation to celebrate, eat feasts, make sacrifices, drink alcohol, play on giant swings, sing, dance and relax.
We took a reserved minivan that was shared with a dozen other people who lived in nearby villages about three hours outside of kathmandu. Crossing the city in order to leave it we were worried about extreme traffic jams that we suspected to have been caused by the mass exodus from capital city for the holiday, so we took a few back roads that shook our bodies in a synchronized dance tempo’d by potholes sending heads into the ceiling of our crowded van.
When we reached the major road which leaves Kathmandu, no wider than an ordinary suburban neighborhood road in the US but which handles transportation of goods and people for an entire country, it was apparent that it was the priority of thousands and thousands of people to get out of the city. Buses which are ordinarily unimaginably tightly packed with passengers hanging out the side door were now adorned with a full array of smiling faces, crunched bodies and legs dangling from the their roofs.
It must be remembered though that three hours in a car in the US and three hours in a car here are extremely different. It is rare to ever go above 40 km per hour and that would be considered fast while twisting and turning through packed city streets or narrow mountain roads in overflowing vehicles dozens of years old. We worked our way outside of the Kathmandu Valley and into the surrounding hills. We drove through forested areas and terraced hillsides bursting with ripening rice crops. We enjoyed a few rest stops. Re-boarding after a few cartwheels on a grassy lawn in front of tin roofed snack shacks I climbed onto the roof of our vehicle with a couple of other boys and looked off the back of the van experiencing the coming mountains and villages as they passed away. We held on tight to the metal roof rack which was also keeping our bags from flying off into the raging post-monsoon river valley we straddled from the heights of a steep concreted river bank road taking us further and further into the paharD (hill area).
We finally unloaded at a small little town of a few shops. We were in a relatively narrow valley, a broad river flowing through it with steep mountains on either side. The river was channeled to flow into the rice patties, cultivated as a lush bedding of this Himalayan cradle. We crossed the powerful and fairly wide river, the currents reaching up to my high thighs. At other times of the year one has to cross via a bridge further downstream to get across the river but for now we took the more direct route.
Directly across from where we crossed the river was a path that lead straight up the side of the mountain. The steep, relentless switchbacks quickly carried us to a giant rock where I saw a stream pouring down from a steep valley of thick jungle and a few bamboo poles carrying Buddhist prayer flags to mark the place where a girl had fallen to her death from the steep slopes above while cutting ghaas (a term used for weeds, shrubs or anything green and edible by domestic animals.)
We continued up the relatively barren and incredibly steep hill for more than an hour before we started entering into the village. Part way through the walk I took off my sandals because I like walking barefoot and because a health specialist in the US had told me walking as such provides the best mindfulness and alignment for my back injury. Everyone was saying ‘why?’ and ‘it doesn’t hurt?’ I would just say that no it doest hurt, I quite enjoy and it, and its good for health and mindfulness.
Rajan stopped to tell me “you see, you walk barefoot of your own desire, but when I was little I had no choice- when I lost my sandals, they broke or I outgrew them and there was no money for another pair, I had no choice but to walk barefoot up and down this steep mountainside. I would have to wake up at 4am to cut ghaas for the water buffalo and goats and then walk all the way to school (about 4-5 km, 3km of which on down this mountainside) and hurry home again to cut more ghaas, to do more housework, and to study before dark. Sometimes there would be no ghaas to cut so I would have to lead the goats way over to the mountain over there. I was always in a hurry because there was so much to do, so much work, so I would trip and cut up my legs and stub my toes.” Rajan showed me his shins and feet covered with scars.
As we continued walking along a few people commented on how this place was no good because you have to walk up and down hill so much. But as we neared the village it became clear that Rajan and his family were happy to be home. They stopped to show us and explain the multiple uses of every plant we passed by- whether fields of beans or yellow mustard flowers, a wild herb or a pipal tree (considered holy by Buddhist and Hindus because it is the kid of tree that the Buddha became enlightened under). One very peculiar plant was one that you could snap the stem of and then blow bubbles from its gooey juices. Apparently the seeds of this plant can also be used to generate light without burning. A few of the plants they talked about, including this ‘lightbulb seed’ and another seed that used to be used for washing hair, were described as being used by older people ‘before’, making their uses seem more like a thing of the past.
The sign that we had reached the village was a pair of enormous pipal trees growing out of an elevated stone sitting area. We caught our breath their under the same tree that people have been for god-knows how many generations. Just there was a water tap with a constant stream of water now pouring into an overflowing 3 gallon copper vessel, one of several at this tap. We continued up the stone stairs worn smooth by hundreds of years of use and finally reached the Lama family house as it was getting dark. I sat down inside the stone house on a hand woven mat placed on a comforting mud floor and met the baba (father) who had clearly been drinking. He seemed like a good guy but was speaking in a tongue I couldn’t understand very well. Most of the meaning I picked up was from his dramatic, bright facial expressions and the movement of his body, arms and hands which he was not shy to twist and throw around to communicate. Our phrase “body language” hardly does justice to explain this guy’s exuberant animation. We ate daal bhaat (lentil soup and rice) with fresh veggies and afterward danced a bit to the music blasting from the stereo. The only cassette we brought would be the theme music for this year’s Dossain. Power from a solar panel which rested on their clay tile roof as one of a few, if not the only one of its kind in the entire village provided enough electricity for the stereo and a couple light bulbs. Slowly things quieted down and people started getting in bed. Jon and I shared a bed with thick blankets as a matress while over a dozen people shared beds, thin cots spread on floors, and the comfort each others warmth.
Waking up the first morning cooing roosters and the sounds of women washing clothes and dishes filled the air as the first hint of the rising sun. Slowly others arose and chit chatter slowly became louder and louder as the sun rose somewhere on the other side of a huge mountain east of the village capable of hiding the golden disc itself but not the sun’s offspring of light and awakening life. I got out of bed around 6:30am when the sun had just breached the crest of the easterly mountain. Music was once more blasting and people had long since been out and about chatting, playing, yelling at each other in a strangely loving fashion, climbing guava trees, cutting ghaas (weeds/schrubs) for the animals, milking the cows and water buffalos, and drinking tea.
I descended the steep ladder leading out of our room, situated precariously above a concrete bathroom housing one of the only toilets (eastern style of course) in the village, to have a delicious cup of hot tea during the chilly morning hour. The tea was laced with black pepper, cinnamon, clove and sugar to warm and lift the spirits. I noticed baabaa take a full glass of roksi (home made liquor) before we started the morning snack of chiurra (flattened, dried rice) and chunks of smoky dried meat dripping with a freshly ground relish of tomatar (a sour fruit resembling a cross between a passion fruit and a tomato), hot chili pepper, garlic, ginger, salt and a few other spices. This is a delicious combination that is served as a snack and, from my experience during Dossain, as the food given to guests when they come for a visit. Vegetable curries and other condiments can also be served with fresh milk or curd. Either jard (creamy, thick homemade alcoholic grain milk of rice, corn or millet) or roksi (jard distilled into liquor) is always offered as well. While I find the roksi to burn too much, the jard is quite pleasant. My first time having the stuff in Borjiang village left me in a blissful mood watching the late morning sun light up the stone courtyard just outside of the Lama family’s home.
Jon and I had been told the day before that today would be a day of sacrifice to the god Durga. The half drunk baabaa now imitated how they would soon sharpen their kukuris (Nepali machete) and slaughter the beasts. I had to see it he said. I most certainly agreed.
Besanti didi (Rajan’s older sister and the eldest of baabaa’s seven children) said we should take a little walk, assuring me that we would make it back in time for the day’s events. Apparently this sacrifice was no small thing and many people would come and watch. It would not only be done here but at various places- up, down, over here, over there- throughout the village.
Before leaving for our morning walk I went with Rajan to pick some vegetables. Just in front of his house is a small stone courtyard where people gather in the morning to quantify and sell their milk and to play cards and other gambling games. Just around the corner is a diesel engine mill for grinding corn into meal/flour and next to that is a small store that sells small items like candies, toothbrushes, stale packaged crackers/biscuits, soap and the like. To the other side of the courtyard is a public water tap with ‘UNISEF’ carved into the concrete base. Here people come to fill up plastic tubs or copper vessels to bring water back to their homes, to wash clothes and so on. Chickens and goats run freely here in what the Lama family calls one of the main centers of their community.
Walking down from the water tap a goat was humping another and exposing a thin bright red facile prong- a color that would reoccur that day with no shame, regret or mercy. Just below the tap are a bunch of long, thick bamboo poles used now to hang laundry until they will be used for a house that is being built above the Lama family’s. Walking past the poles one walks down a steep, narrow path between two houses. The houses here are made of rocks, thick wood beams, and bamboo, with a mud concrete to hold it all together. Most of them are two floors with a steep stairway. The floors and walls are maintained with mud and manure that dries in an incredibly delightful way. The white, orange, and red colors come from natural dies and it all combines in a way that preserves beautiful living spaces for hundreds of years. The roofs are either thatched or made of longer lasting clay tiles.
Walking down between the two houses a cow peers its head around the edge of a house. The entirety of the enormous water buffalo is exposed as I reach the area below the houses where there are about five water buffalo and over a half dozen goats all munching on bundles of ghaas hanging from nooses. Most of the animals are tied to posts with a rope around their neck but some are free like the tiny baby goats that jump around, thrust at their mothers tits, and suck on human fingers and ears- enough to make anyone crack a smile if not burst into a raging laugh.
But we were on our way to pick vegetables so we didn’t play for too long, before continuing down the steep path I peaked my head into the small stone house. I saw an old couple inside and they immediately invited me inside wit some shock on their faces (white skin is not common here). The old lady was sifting through some turmeric which she had just ground as her husband invited me to sit on a small bench. They offered me some milk. I tried to explain that we were on our way to… -but the concept of being in a hurry is near meaningless here so I simply accepted their offered and enjoyed the thick, warm and sweet water buffalo milk. I couldn’t refuse a second glass of the glorious beverage and sank even more deeply into contentment.
Back on our mission, Rajan and I continued down the extremely steep hillside on the rocky path which winds through all sorts of shrubs, herbs, wild hot peppers, fruit trees, vines, and other sub-tropical vegetation.
Far older than most of the houses around here are the terraces that are the hallmark of the Himalayan foothills of Nepal. The steep path we descended looks out over huge mountains covered with forest and terraces of various sizes depending on the lay of the land. The first terrace we came to below the two houses, their animals and a reclined mountain of manure (used as fertilizer in the terraces of course) was a blossoming narrow poly-culture of mustard greens, kidney beans, tomatoes, hot peppers, okra and daikon radish. Despite the fact that this was only one relatively small terrace, it was overflowing with food at various stages of maturity. At the edge of the terrace are guava, papaya, charamoya and other trees. The vines of various pumpkins, squashes and green beans climb on shrubs, trees and the tall stalks of sunflower plants boasting face size flowers fully blossomed with seeds beginning to dry.
The next terrace bellow is a small sea of soft white flowers that will soon go to seed as buckwheat. The path is sort of lost here but one finds their way to overlook the next terrace of yellow flowers blowing in the sweet morning breeze. These yellow flowers will give way to mustard seeds which are pressed into a delicious pungent oil used for cooking and as a hair conditioner.
Looking further downhill, one sees more of the same- houses and terraced fields of various crops on the steep hillsides which eventually fall way down to the river below where many families have small shares of rice patties. Recently a village sold a large part of their patties and huge piles of rocks and pebbles tower in their place. The rocks will to be chipped (probably by hand paying people less than $35/month for their labor), sorted, and shipped away for use on whatever road or construction projects necessitate their industrial extraction. On the other side of the river rise more hills which stretch into the distance and overlap indefinitely with one another, eventually blending into the fuzzy horizon of clouds glowing subtle peachy colors contrasted by the misty greens and blues of the mountains glistening in the morning light. At this time of year such clouds hide the “himals” -the Nepali word for ‘mountain capped by snow year-round’ and the root of name the rest of the world is familiar with to signify to tallest mountains on the planet.
We brought back bundles of long green beans, a few bitter gourds (tita chorela), squash and pumpkins- there were a lot of people to feed, and we formed a small group for the morning walk Besanti had suggested earlier. We took a different relatively flat path cut into the hillside and reached a friend Kanchi’s house. ‘Kanchi’ means ‘smallest in the family’.
While sitting in the house Kanchi says “My house in no good.” John and I try to reaffirm that we think their houses and village is great and asked why they say the house is no good. “Because its old” came the answer. We responded saying that old doesn’t have to mean bad. “These houses are so beautiful and strong” Jon said as I rubbed my fingers over a wooden beam polished smooth by the years and blending into the rock and mud walls. I thought about to what extent we were trying to convince her to be happy and content with her house versus just being polite- either way both sides were pining for the greener grass on the other side.
Kanchi poked a pile of coals that sat in the mud stove where everything is cooked with wood. Smoke continuously rises up toward strings of dried meat hanging above the stove and moves slowly along the blackened ceiling to the other side of the room where a hardly noticeable current of smoke blows out above fresh air being sucked through the low doorway. Rays of sun pierce the swirling smoke in the room as sharp strokes of light which illuminate the huge pile of dried unhusked corn and an old woman (Kanchi’s husband’s mom) sorting through daal (lentils) on a bamboo tray to remove small rocks and sticks. Yes, certainly it is an old life, one which has been lived for hundreds if not thousands of years; but who is to authoritatively judge and give labels of ‘good’ and ‘bad’? Some would call this place backwards, other would call it marvelous. For now I am just trying to hear the thoughts of the people before I settle into any of my own thoughts or judgments which tend to positively align with semi-romanticized notions of traditional lifestyles.
We heard some voices rise and someone shouted something as they ran by. Borjyang is a Tamang Village and most people here speak the Tibeto-Burman Tamang language which is entirely foreign to me considering that Nepali is a Indo-European language. But our friends translated for us, telling us (in Nepali) that just up the road a sacrifice was about to go down.
Myself, Jon and some younger kids scurried to find our sandals next to a hand powered rock grain grinder shadowed by husks of corn and hurried up the road to find a crowd of people gathered around a small clearing in the path. Men stood excitedly waiting and holding blades of different shapes and sizes- a thick heavy slaughtering blade, typical Nepali kukuris (machete), and long swords. In the air was a buzz of excitement and chatter which only heightened as a bisy (water buffalo) was lead into the spotlight with a rope through its nostrils and around its neck. The bisy was tied to a small wooden post. Noticing the udder of the animal John said “I thought only males were killed”, something we had heard from someone from another ethnic group.
Things quieted down a bit and the bustle of people solidified into small groups, arms and hands tightly clasped. Sunita, Rajan’s cousin of about 13 years, leaned against me. We watched as a bundle of ghaas was thrown down from the terrace just above where there was also a small group of people forming.
The young man holding the thickest, heaviest blade took the bundle of greens and held it to the bisy’s mouth. Getting a taste of its favorite past-time the beast was tempted as the man threw the bundle between the bisy’s two front legs. The bisy’s neck bowed down lengthening, exposing and stretching out its long neck. The man held the enormous blade above his head, eyebrows up, all his focus on the beast’s neck which lifted and turned the other way before the man could yield a blow. The breath that everyone had been holding was released in an elevation of the excitement level now about to gruesomely explode. “Do you think he’ll be able to cut all the way through with one hit?” Jon asked. I merely shrugged, completely absorbed in watching the small nest of men with kukuris and swords trying to settle the bisy back into a good position.
The bundle of greens was again thrown between the two front legs and the young man stood poised holding the giant machete with both hands high above his head, waiting patiently for the right moment which seemed to never come until…
SHHHWAAP! Down came the mighty blade as a grey blur cast before a blue sky. I knew red was another color introduced now but a person’s head was blocking my view of where the blow had struck. Gasps of awe and shock clattered along with the wounded bisy whose neck quickly stumbled into my line of vision as a gaping red exposure of flesh breaching ¼ -1/3 of the way through the black beasts burley neck.
The bisy released a moan of pain and about five men stood with swords ready to strike again. A sword came down and cries rang out from small children who watched as blood burst into the air and the bisy fell to the ground with a great thud. A puff of dust settled as the men rushed to the fallen creature and gave a few more blows to the severed neck of the beast whose huge body was still kicking and shaking. The blows from the blades and the desperate movements of the decapitated body released more shouts from the cheering children and more blood which, unlike the cries that dissipated into the sky, was captured by a metal bucket.
All of this was overseen by the great god Durga who was appeased by the rivers of blood flowing through Nepal that day, blood that stained clothes, roads, hearts and minds for quite some time to come. Dossain is a holiday that celebrates the victory of good over evil. Durga is the god that is in many ways responsible for this victory. Durga is not the embodiment white shining love that we think of as "good" but rather is the ferocious, blood thirsty god that crosses polarized borders of good and evil in order to fight that which is most dark and evil in our world. How can evil be defeated by passive gods who are scared of violence and sitting on puffy clouds?
After the first bisy was sacrificed another was brought in to be slaughtered. This one took even longer to get the neck position right for the initial blow, but even more blood spilled.
Then we walked back to Rajan’s house. Along the way Rajan told me how ever since he was small he has never been able to watch the slaughtering. He told me how his uncle, a highly regarded Buddhist monk, had explained to him that killing anything is a sin in the Buddhist Darma, and so he tries to never harm anything. I asked him why he still eats meat then if eating it necessarily creates killing and therefore sin with the slaughter. I didn’t understand Raajan’s answer then, but later found out that many Buddhists eat meat because monks are able to bless the killers and remove the sins which they acquire while giving tasty and nourishing gifts death’s flesh to laymen and monks.
Back at Rajan’s house and sitting in the kitchen chatting, baabaa came in and called me. I went outside to see that the crowd of people that would otherwise be gambling had acquired more females and was now gathered around the foreground of the water tap.
A couple of men led up a male bisy from the yard below. It was the bisy I had been petting and admiring this morning on the way to pick vegetables.
The crowd of men, women and children erupted with cheers and cries as this bisy also lost its head in a violent, gory and yet sacred show of muscle, metal, blood and godly appeasement.
Baaba told me that the other femal bisies I had seen sacrificed were not suitable for puja (worship ceremony), but that this male bisy was. He told me that on this single day of the year hundreds of thousands of buffs would be sacrificed. The roads would be stained red to remind the people of their relationship with and obligation to their Hindu-Buddhist gods. Of course the holliday is also a great excuse to bring family together, feast, and exchange tikka.
As we ate a lunch of daal bhaat the headless bisy lay out in the late morning sun, its raw, gory neck covered with leaves to keep the flies off. When I went outside again men were throwing dry grass on the carcass and burning it to remove the hair. The parched skin was then scraped down with a kukuri blade and then the carcass was dragged to the concrete basin of the water tap and the butchering began.
First the front and hind legs were cut off and thrown onto a plastic tarp where other men cut up the meat. There were at least ten men involved in the process of dissecting the entirety of the animal, cutting, weighing and distributing the flesh, fat, organs and bones in six even piles to be given to the six families who jointly purchased the bisy.
It was amazing to see how every last bit of the animal would be eaten- skin, fat, organs, bones and all. The head was cut open with a hatchet spattering brains on the man hacking at the skull. The brain was removed and then the rest of the head was cut up to be eaten like any other meat (the word ‘masu’ means ‘meat’, but its definition is far different than what we think of as meat- muscle and some fat. Masu means any edible part of an animal, a.k.a. everything). The rumen and colon were turned inside out and cleaned thoroughly to be eaten like any other meat. The inside of the rumen (the huge stomach-like sack that cows use to ferment and digest ghaas) had a rough texture parts of which had an amazing pentagon pattern on it.
The whole process took a few hours, and then the masu was brought into the kitchen where the women cut it up further. Most of the masu was cut into long strips to be hung and smoke dried over the wood stove. Pieces of skin were thrown onto the fire just then and parched, cut into pieces and eaten plain. It tasted like what it was- burnt skin and a thick layer of fat. “Village bubble gum” Sunita (Raajan’s cousin) called it after chewing and chewing and chewing.
The liver was thrown on the fire in the same way and then cut into small pieces. I was able to one piece while it was still a bit rare/raw- very good stuff. The other pieces of tender liver were mixed with a salty and spicy paste and enjoyed thoroughly.
As the masu was cut we continued gnawing on chunks of charred fatty skin- the taste of which became tolerable but was never terrific by any means. For snack we had chiurra (pre-cooked, dry flattened rice) with blood prepared with spices and fully cooked until it congealed into a cottage cheese-like texture and the same fatty skin-fat masu that instead of being charred had been cooked more like a curry. The blood was tasty, but it was hard for me to chew through all that fat- and I think all that fat did my stomach in as well. Fat is a flavor we are not as used to in the west but is quite sought after here. It is very important to eat some fat with meat because not only is fat extremely energy dense, but it actually contains vitamins and minerals which make the protein from muscle meat more fully digestible. However, I cannot help but say that what follows is what I believe to be a better usage of the fat than the way we ate it that afternoon.
After lunch we went up to the top of the village where there was a lottery. The place was beautiful, next to the village stuppa (Buddhist temple) and school were prayer flags where people congregated as they waited through the long speeches that began the day’s events. The top prize for the lottery was a goat. Other prizes included a cell phone, scientific calculator, a large bottle of coca cola, a pressure cooker, Nepal topis (hats), and t-shirts. My roommate John ended up winning a fake ‘diesel’ shirt and was called on stage to have his face smeared red as is the tradition. People roared in cheers and laughter like you cannot imagine seeing this white giant on stage.
We returned back to the house walking along side terraced fields of potatoes, corn, mustard, peanuts, buckwheat and vegetables. That afternoon and evening the baju (a term used for the wife of the eldest son of a family who after moving in with the husband’s family is responsible for a majority of the housework) spent hours and hours stuffing cleaned out intestines with fat. The sausage looking contortions were also slowly dried and would be used as a cooking fat after a few months. The most popular way to use this preserved fat is to put a small amount of it in boiling water and then cook fresh greens with delicious spices and tomatoes- all freshly harvested of course. I had this incredible vegetable dish several times, except instead of using the preserved fat, they would boil the bones of the bisy to add a delicious richness to the greens. The bones could then be gnawed on and sucked and chewed as a healthy and enjoyable way to pass time.
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