Halloween in Kathmandu

Finally–the American festive season has begun.

Dasaain is definitely unique. Tihar is beautiful. Chhat (sp?), a festival that’s mostly celebrated in Southern Nepal, has been extending some interesting influences lately, with fresh marigold garlands for sale at the chowks, and… well, frankly, it looks like some of my neighbors have put up what looks like a Medieval European corn maiden outside their house (I promise a picture, once I get it off the camera.)

But now, finally, it’s time for the American harvest festivals.

How many autumn decorations can YOU fit on one small coffee table?

I’ve been trying very hard, for over a month, to convince myself that it’s fall. I got out the autumn decorations on the equinox; I picked up a book of ghost stories, and two others that reviewed actual medieval accounts of the witch trials in Europe. We decided it was finally time to watch Buffy: The Vampire Slayer and Angel, so we had a bunch of cavorting vampires and demons and witches.

But… the trees stayed stubbornly green, and only in the past week have we noticed anyone wearing jackets–and then just in the morning, or late evening. And we tend to giggle at them, because while we’ve agreed to wear long sleeves a few days ourselves, our Mid-Western raised bodies aren’t convinced that it’s anywhere near chilly enough to bother with a jacket.

All ye Americans out there, consider our plight: We haven’t passed any jack-o-lanterns, or signs for haunted houses, or billboards advertising “Halloween Super Stores.” We don’t open the newspaper for advertisements to fall out featuring sacks of candy and strange decorations, and there have been no commercials on TV featuring Dracula or mummies or witches. We live in a world without little graphics of dancing skeletons or smiling ghosts or black cats with arched backs. We can’t play flip-the-channel and stumble on Charlie Brown and the Great Pumpkin or Double Trouble or random horror flicks. No Halloween episodes of our favorite shows, no, not for us. No trick-or-treaters ringing our doorbell tonight.

Unsuspecting Nepalis have no idea I look out at them through a veil of strange decorations.

So, frankly, we get a stark understanding of what it means to live in another culture. Have you ever tried to explain the cultural “significance” of a paper snowflake? I did, while putting up decorations last year, and discovered a whole new awareness of the word “culture.”

So it’s an amazing comfort to continue your own traditions with people who share them, when you live in the midst of a bunch of people who don’t. I think it’s even more fun, in a way; it’s definitely more special.

Suddenly, today, when we walked into our friends’ Halloween party, we were all grins, realizing that, for the first time, it was really Halloween. Cobwebs draped over the typical Kathmandu gate, and demons howled from a remote sensor along the wall. Grinning skulls flickered on a wreath; a foam graveyard sprouted on the front lawn, with a ghost arising; a corner of the driveway was cordoned off with “caution” tape and an outline was drawn in chalk and sprinkled with blood and an abandoned gun. Fog machines thickened the air, dark and spooky songs pounded from the speakers… and everybody laughed and greeted each other with, “Wow, your costume is great!”

Superheroes eased past Little Red Riding Hoods, and Madonna schmoozed with a fairy and a zombie waitress. Vampires and mummies and pregnant nuns stalked around, looking for a cup of beer or coke. The representatives of Hispanic, Japanese, and Arab cultures were not there in the capacity of diplomats at an international gathering; they were hanging out and having fun. I was a queen in the grand European tradition in a nation that outlawed its monarchy three days before I set foot in the country.

We decided all the Nepalis must think we were crazy. The neighbors of my friends must have wondered what on earth was going on, with VERY strangely dressed (even more strangely dressed than normal) Westerners wandering around the streets. When we dropped off one of our friends after the party, and I realized I’d forgotten to wish her a parting, “Happy Halloween!”, I hesitated to roll down the window and shout it to her down the street. It was 11:00; all the lights in the houses were out. But my husband said, “Aw, go ahead. Pay back for Tihar.” During which, of course, we had a full band playing next door at 11:00. But we’re the minority here, and I decided the shout wasn’t worth it.

Since I can't find the traditional squash from home, I make do with what I have. Any clues about the green things? They grow in my yard, but I have no idea what they are.

But now I sit here typing and picking out the best pictures of the decorations in our house (actually from last year; I haven’t downloaded from the camera lately.) I was listening to CDs with spooky sound effects. Now I have Trans-Siberian Orchestra’s “Night Castle” going; on my playlist I’ve had Mannheim Steamroller’s “Harvest Dance” and “Rock and Roll Graveyard” playing right with “Hall of the Mountain King” and “Ride of the Valkyries” and “Toccata and Fugue in D Minor”. I’ve had a vampire belting out “Let me rest in peace” from the Buffy musical episode, and Nine Inch Nails and Rob Zombie and Marilyn Manson all doing their distinctive thing; I’ve let all this background music support writing brutal battles in the war underway in my current novel.

But tomorrow we must lay the ghosts. It’s past midnight; All Saints’ Day has begun, and All Souls’ Day will follow hard on its heels. In fact, I plan to end tonight with my traditional playing of Trans-Siberian Orchestra’s “Carol of the Bells” and a rendition of either “O Holy Night” or “Silent Night”; then all the other Christmas music may begin. Within the next few days, the Nutcracker will be playing, and I’ll be singing Latin hymns like “In natali domine” and “Danielis prophetia”.

We different cultures can glance askance at each other as strange. Yet, I think people who have just finished a ritual slaughter in remembrance of a goddess slaying an evil demon, and then have thanked crows and dogs for their essential duties related to death, and then welcomed the peaceful, kind bringer of good fortune and light into their lives for another year… Well, as different as we may be, are we, really?

Nepali of the Day:
sanskriti: culture
bhoj: party
marnu: to die
mriti: death
raat: night
giit: song
mithai: sweets
lugaa: clothes
sharad: autumn

All Quiet on the Eastern Front

No explosions tonight.  The snap and crackle of fireworks is gone.

I did hear a few this morning, but they were sporadic, lonely and sort of sad.

Several of my neighbors have taken down their electric lights.  The few that are still gleaming seem an oddity, in the dark.  And there are no candles.

No singing or dancing, either, other than the headphones in my ears and my fingers on the keyboard.

So Tihar has come and gone.  It makes me nostalgic, to think we probably won’t be here to see it again next year.  It’s such a pretty festival.

But life goes on, here in the Nepal Sambat year of 1130.

The eternal summer of Nepal continues.  While I was talking to people back in Indiana on Sunday, who reported a chilly 40 degrees Fahrenheit, here it remains cheerfully in the 70s.  Note all the green, along the path for our Sunday walk:

The greenery gracing the edge of the trail we hiked at Shivapuri National Park.

But, with some work, I managed to find one tree that was losing its leaves.  Granted, maybe that had nothing to do with the season.  Maybe it was a sick or dying tree, for all I know.  But it did make the path nicely, temporarily, dry leaf-strewn.

Dry leaves scattered along the path in the park.

Speaking of eternal summers, go check out the latest play discovered to have some likely input from Shakespeare.

Nepali of the Day:

kal:  era

yug:  era

sambat:  era

paksha:  fortnight

aunsi:  new moon

purnima:  full moon

barsaat:  rainy season

sharad:  autumn

shuru garnu:  to start

pachi:  after

Barsaat pachi, sharad shuru garcha.

Happy New Year!

…to all you Newaris out there.

Everybody else–sorry, but you’ve got to wait another two months.

Unless you use the more widespread Nepali calendar, in which case you need to wait until April.

Tihar is winding to a close.  No children came to ring the doorbell this evening.  The firecrackers didn’t pop as often.  I saw less gatherings outside; even the sparkling electric lights are starting to look a bit tired, somehow, though I don’t get sick of them a month into the Christmas season–here, they’ve barely been up a week.

I did see a little girl at one of my neighbors’ houses playing with a sparkler, though.  That brought back memories of 4th of July of long ago; I’ve never been too keen on large fireworks, unless they’re safely distant–out over the middle of the Ohio River, say–but, as a little girl, every year on the 4th, I waved around a sparkler.

There must have been many family gatherings this morning, as sisters offered tika and flowered garlands to their brothers.  That’s another unique feature of this holiday–in the US, we have Mothers’ Day and Fathers’ Day and even Grandparents’ Day, (and, in many ways, Christmas borders on Children’s Day) but there’s no Sibling Day.  Essentially, that’s what this day of the festival is for, to celebrate the bond between brothers and sisters.

If you still haven’t had enough of all things Tihar, visit Nepal Vista to read more.

Nepali of the Day:

diin:  day

bahini:  younger sister

didi:  older sister

bhai:  younger brother

dai:  older brother

keta-keti:  boys and girls

choraa:  son

chorii:  daughter

choraa-chorii:  children

Naya bharshako subakamana!:  Happy New Year!

Climbing

I climbed up 296 steps today.

So what?

Well, I did it AFTER walking up this:

Note that this is taken from three-quarters of the way up the hill. See the distant prayer flags? Yeah, I didn't either. But that's where we went.

After a year of living in the shadow of Shivapuri National Park,we finally discovered the pedestrian friendly entrance, and the trails, today.  A fast hour and a half of walking, and we were near a summit–we tortured our thighs on all those steps and finally achieved a tranquil garden and amalgamation of buildings; men and women in red robes passed us, granting gentle smiles, or else they sat or stood in the shade, speaking in hushed voices.

In a grassy area, we had a lovely picnic lunch, and were visited by a puja-ed cow and her bull calf.

The bull calf, showing his pretty red tika.

We entered the sanctuary itself, and marveled at all things Buddhist.

The interior of the sanctuary in the monastery complex.

And then we turned around and descended all those stairs, and the slope itself, again.

Midway down, we peered through the trees at distant prayer flags on a peak–our jaws dropped as our smiling guide explained that was where we had just been.

The kids in our party repeatedly shouted the exact same thoughts going through the minds of all the adults:  How did we get up and down so fast?  It didn’t feel like we climbed that high!

Then again, I discovered it the moment I got home.  Since I’m tormented by allergies, I popped into the shower first thing, but it didn’t help enough; once I got out, I immediately had to lie down for four hours with a splitting headache, as bad as a migraine.  Light hurt.  Sounds hurt.  Colors hurt.  Moving hurt.  I put a pillow on my head and didn’t move for an hour straight.

But it’s thankfully already passed; it couldn’t have been a migraine, just the most severe sinus headache I’ve had in my life.  Food may not sound good still, but the headache’s completely gone.

Outside, Tihar continues, with all its happiness.  An hour or so ago, when the power cut out again, it hardly disrupted the parties at my neighbors’ houses.  Instead, all at once, dozens of voices shouted an excited, “Whooo!” when the entire neighborhood plunged into darkness.  Save for all the candles and fireworks, of course.

A while later, I found about thirty people, of all ages, gathered on the porch of one of my neighbors’ houses.  They all sang the traditional Tihar song I mentioned yesterday, clapping in time as one man sang out the refrain and the rest responded with the endless verses.  They sang as if they were very tired; it’s nearly 11:00.  But they still sang, and swayed with the music, as if they were having a marvelous time.

You live in Kathmandu, you make your own fun.

The Music of Tihar

I love this holiday.

We really need to adopt Tihar in the US.  Next year, make a promise to yourself to celebrate Newari New Year with all the attendant festivities.

Out of nowhere, at 10:30 at night, a full band has materialized on my neighbor’s front lawn, complete with guitar, singer on mike, and drumset.  They even have backup dancers.  And after just a moment of preparation, the singer is crooning a song to the music, and at least one inhabitant of the house is looking on from the front porch, with shockingly mild interest.  The entire group is adolescent boys.

Just as suddenly, five minutes later, they’re gone.

Earlier, we had our own visiting singers.  But they were younger, and we were excited to peel out of the house with the bag of Halloween candy we’d brought here in hopes of distributing at a Halloween party.  Now, we realized we had the closest thing Nepal produces to trick-or-treaters.

My husband insisted on bringing Alaska out, too.  I was hesitant, knowing that many Nepali children are nervous around dogs.  But, just after dark, the doorbell by the gate had rung, and Alaska was just as anxious to see the visitors as we were, so Sean attached her to the leash, and he opened the gate, as I clutched the jack-o-lantern bowl of candy.

For a moment, we and our young visitors stared at one another, unsure what to do.  Last year, during Tihar, we hadn’t really understood what was going on; we were startled to hear our guard yelling through the gate, in Nepali.  “They aren’t Nepali!  Go away!”

A few hours into the next night, with the guard gone, we guessed what was going on, with so many troops of kids trekking from house to house, with young voices singing, with our own rarely-used doorbell ringing.  But we didn’t have any candy handy, and we weren’t sure how many rupees to give them.  At some point, Sean did manage to catch a group and hand out some lollipops or small candy bars we happened to have.

This year, we were more ready, if a bit nervous when actually face to face.  My hands were busy holding the bowl, but I’ve long since realized a bright smile and “Namaste!” can do wonders here.  It broke the children’s surprised ice at once.  Automatically, they all chorused back, “Namaste!”

There were four of them, two girls about twelve, one slightly younger, and a boy around eight.  One of the girls wore the most beautiful clothes, like a miniature of the traditional Newari wedding gown.  And the girl who looked the oldest, clearly the leader, gestured inside the gate, and I remembered we were supposed to invite them in to have them sing and dance for us, not simply dispense the candy in return for a phrase, like Halloween in the U.S.

They were unsure of themselves, facing sudden Westerners.  But they tried a few words in English, and we did the same in Nepali–they tried to ask us if we had musical instruments to play while they sang and danced, and we were surprised, and said we had none.  But then the leading girl took control of her young charges, and started up one of the tunes already familiar to me from hearing it chanted out the window.  The others were more uncertain, at first, and never very steady, but then the girl in the beautiful dress relaxed more and started clapping in time to the music, moving through the steps of a small dance.  They flinched back from Alaska a few times, and that broke their concentration.  But they also regarded her with shy smiles, as if they wanted to dare to pet her; they finished two or three songs before the leading girl said confidently, in English, “It is finished.”

And I held out the bowl of candy.  And they seemed slightly surprised again, but, sure enough, a couple of them carried pillow cases like trick-or-treating American youngsters, in which they’d clearly been stowing their goods of the night.  Their eyes bulged a bit, when they saw all the candy–when we gestured for them to take some, they grabbed a handful, far more than the one to three pieces I used to accept for my “trick or treat!”  But then again, I’d said three words, not sung several complete songs and did a dance.

Then again, we’d heard other singing voices start in the midst of these children’s presentation; another group already hung just outside the gate, and in fact the gate hadn’t been completely shut when they arrived; the boy had shut it all the way, to avoid the competition.  But the other group filed in as the first filed out, and they were a much bigger crowd, with about seven or eight of them.  None of them wore a beautiful dress like the one girl had; they just wore normal clothing, like t-shirts around the world, including one boy in a “Death Note” anime t-shirt.  But they were also more confident, singing in strong, firm voices–I was startled to find what looked like one of the younger girls taking the lead in what seems the uber-traditional Tihar song, the simple, haunting call and response that seems to have the exact same tune as the country-western song of the American prairies, “Circle to the left, the old brass wagon, circle to the right, the old brass wagon…”

But of course the song is in Nepali.  And the part matching “circle to the left” in fact stays the same with each verse; the part matching “the old brass wagon” is what changes, with brief snatches of words that I frustrated myself with trying and failing to understand.  I only picked out a few fragments, which seemed to reflect the idea of wandering around Kathmandu, and something about a house, and one clear piece, featured in the other song, too, about “Laxmi puja gaeko” which means “after worshipping the goddess Laxmi” which is, largely, what this entire festival is about.  She is the goddess of good luck; sure enough, my same neighbors that had the full band on their lawn earlier tonight have already decorated their steps and front porch with a trail of powder and flowers that leads to their front door and probably beyond, to their family shrine for Laxmi.  Like American children expecting Santa to come and enjoy their milk and cookies and leave behind presents, the Nepalis expect Laxmi to follow the trail to their house tonight and bless them for the coming year.

Despite the electricity shortages that had us all in a blackout a few hours ago, most of the houses around here now shine with strings of what, to me, look like Christmas lights, in gold and red and hints of green.  Simple multi-colored strands flash from all the balconies, even the roof, of my nearest neighbor.  Firecrackers continue to sizzle and pop and light up the sky, while a dazzling array of candles trace the balconies and eaves of the houses of several of my other neighbors.

It’s too bad I’m no good at night photography.  All the glow is very beautiful.

Tihar Comes But Once a Year…

…but when it does, it brings good cheer!

After 16 months here, I’ve decided, definitively, that Tihar is the closest analogue, in spirit, to Christmas in America.

It’s not just the lights, scintillating everywhere, draping from every house and business.

It’s not just the stores, brimful of excited shoppers, hunting through the latest selection of the typical goods of the season.

It’s not just the streets, choked with traffic–of the car, bus, van, motorcycle, bicycle, and pedestrian variety–as all those shoppers hurry home.

It’s not just the candles, casting cheery lights from window panes.

It’s not just the children, wandering from house to house to sing traditional songs.

It’s not just the family gatherings.

It’s not just the ready smiles–Nepalis feature those daily, as part of their normal culture.

It’s… the entire spirit of the holiday.  There is such a palpable aura of joy in the air that it seems like it ought to get its own color named after it.

It’s beautiful.

Of course, there are differences.  Around me now, firecrackers snap and pop and sizzle for brief seconds in the night sky.  Today, people must have celebrated Kahg Tihar by setting out food for the crows.  Tomorrow, many people will be flagging down the local street dog to offer it a special treat and then rub vermillion powder on its forehead as a special puja.  Households will soon feature trails of red powder from their gate to their front door, to welcome the goddess Laxmi to bring good fortune into their homes for the coming year.

Still, all of this is slightly disrupting my month-long celebration of Halloween.  I’m not so interested in reading scary stories or designing a costume with so much… well… Christmas spirit around.  I’m really very tempted to jump forward 2 weeks, and start my personal, annual, 2 month-long celebration of all things Christmas-Yule-Winter.

Then again, autumn began less than a month ago, and all the trees here continue to be happily, stubbornly green.

Living abroad can be such a strange mixture of experiences…

Birthday Bash for Alaska

Do you remember Baby Alaska?

She was incredibly, improbably, cute.

You just GOTTA love the baby!

And yet, somehow, when she was just three weeks old, she and her sisters were abandoned in a box, with no mother in sight.  And yet they were lucky, even so.  They were abandoned at the front step of one of the directors of the KAT Centre, the Kathmandu Animal Treatment Centre, the only real organization… in all of Nepal, as far as I know… that is devoted to caring for the many street dogs that live in Kathmandu.  She and her sisters were placed in their own small enclosure, with blankets and space to play, with meals of rice and shredded chicken lovingly prepared and offered to them.

Then we arrived, in a desultory search to resolve the problem:  “Honey, the kitten is too old.  L’orange is a cat now.  I need something to nurture.  Either we get a baby soon, or we need to find a puppy.”

Our attention was drawn to a playful and very cute puppy that was about three months old.  But she was a bit too energetic for me–and when I peered into the cage of the small puppies, a tiny face emerged from the pile, those serious dark eyes and that gleaming white muzzle, peering up at me curiously, and I knew I was in love.  I instantly thought, “Uh-oh, this is the one!  But she’s so little!”

Unlike every single shelter in the US, the workers urged us to take a younger puppy over an older one.  “The older ones, if we have to put them back on the street, they’ll be okay.  But the little ones… this isn’t really the place for them.  Too many dogs come in here; it’s too easy for them to get sick.  But they’ll die alone.  They really need to be in their own home, with someone to take care of them.”

So we thought about it… and gave in.  And carried home a tiny bundle of squirming, whining puppy.  She was obviously quite scared, to be parted from her sisters for the first time, to be put in a car, to be taken somewhere totally different.

And I swear, she was so young she was still toddling.  Seriously–watching her walk was like watching any two-year-old baby.  She shifted her weight too hard from foot to foot, looking like she always just barely caught herself in time before toppling over, with every step.  And steps in our multiple staircases were just absolutely awe-inspiring to her.  Each step was bigger than she was.  When we put her at the edge of them, and walked up or down away from her, to see what she would do, she sat down and cried, with clear puppy whines.  She didn’t want to be left alone.  But she had no idea how to climb up or down something that was honestly as big as she was.

Then she got a little bigger.  Not much–but just enough.

Well, I suppose I am as big as each step now, almost...

Baby Alaska becomes brave, and tackles stairs the same size as her.

And then, suddenly, just weeks after we’d brought her home, she was horribly sick.  She reverted back to being a far more helpless baby than she’d ever been.  Live as long as I might, I’ll never forget those hours of sitting on the floor, cradling an eight-pound puppy in my arms, singing slow carols to her like “Lully, Lullay” and “Silent Night” in a faltering voice, my fingers resting against her fragile ribs and feeling her heart beat a crescendo against my fingertips.  As she recovered from the terror of a seizure, and then another, and then another, all apparently triggered by her lethal combination of worms and giardia and, worst of all, parvovirus.  She couldn’t keep anything in her system.  Her glucose and salt levels were abysmal.

And then, just as suddenly, she was better.  And like any healthy, normal puppy, she kept growing.  And growing.  And growing.

Until the stairs weren’t such a challenge, anymore.

Well, if I'm bigger than them now, I might as well eat them...

And then I started looking at the calendar, and realized she must have been born in the last week of September last year.  So she was now one year old.

Really, mommy? Are you sure I'm already a year old? But I still feel like a puppy!

Nepali of the Day:

khukur:  dog

ek barsha:  one year

janmadiin:  birthday

Thulo:  large

saano:  small

U biraami thiyo:  She was sick.

Ahile, u sanchai chha:  Now she is well.

Greatest Show on Earth

…and it’s free!

We didn’t watch the sunset in Manila alone.  Hardly.  Everyone in the city must know the best show in town, playing every evening.  Maybe the permanent residents are a bit bored with it; even beauty, of course, can become passe.  But the sunset can’t say it doesn’t attract attention.

A group of happy watchers.

The audience grows, when you zoom out.

Actually, the audience is quite large indeed...

Ah, people of Manila, how are you now?

Nepali of the Day:

[Diinko Nepali]:

dherai:  a lot

manche:  people

hernu:  to watch

surya:  sun

aakash:  sky

pritthi:  earth

mandaal:  world, orbit, zone, area

sundaar:  beautiful

baadal laagyo:  it’s cloudy (literally, something like “to have clouds”)

kaasto chha?:  what is it like?

tapaii:  you

maa:  I

uniharu:  they

tapaailaai kaasto chha:  how are you?  (literally, something like “What is being felt by you?”)

khushi laagyo:  to be happy  (literally, something like “to experience happiness”)

Maalaai khushi laagyo:  I’m happy

Uniharulaai khushi laagyo:  They’re happy

dhukaa laagyo:  to be sad

dhukaa laagdaina:  to not be sad

basnu:  to sit

hiDnu:  to walk

Manila Sunset

As usual, there are all sorts of things I could be writing about, and probably should.  Dashain is ending–I didn’t cover it at all, this year.  I’m 99% certain that Alaska is now one year old, and I should put up a post celebrating her birthday week; we adopted her at the end of October last year, when she was 5 weeks old.  (And she’s so big now!  I WILL put up pics!)

But I’ve been reading the news, and got distracted by the tragic reports out of Manila.  We were just there, less than 2 months ago!

So here’s some pictures of a happier time in Manila, to alleviate the gloom.  The world-famous sunset over Manila Bay:

Pretty colors!

The pretty colors continue, with a ship at dusk in Manila Bay.

The grand finale of the sunset.

Nepali of the Day:

jahaaz:  ship

surya:  sun

baadal: cloud(s)

sanjha:  dusk

kehi ber:  what time of the day?

rang:  color

rato:  red

panhelo:  yellow

nilo:  blue

suntaala:  orange (the fruit)

suntaala rang:  orange (lit, “the color of an orange” … funny how we essentially do the same in English, same color, same noun, very different words…)

siddiyo:  finished

Bhaktapur: Postcard City

I dare anyone to try going to Bhaktapur and getting bad pictures.  Honestly, I think you’d have to work at it.  Here’s 3 I got in a row yesterday, without even trying hard:

One of the many temples in Bhaktapur

...and another temple in Bhaktapur...

...and yet another one...or possibly part of the old palace...same thing

(And it’s good to have easy stuff–yes, obviously, I’ve been too busy lately.  And occasionally sick.  You know the drill.)

Nepali of the Day:

sajilo:  easy

mandir: temple

sundar:  beatiful