Cremations and a Hindu Festival

Sorry for not posting anything for awhile, but classes started this week at Kathmandu University and I’ve been busy preparing lectures. Now that the semester has started, I’ll probably be posting something every week instead of every few days.

About a week and a half ago, while I was at home working, Bonnie went to the Pashupatinath temple and cremation area which is just a mile east of our apartment. It is located on the Bhagmati River, a Nepali tributary of the Ganges River in India – the holiest river in the Hindu religion. Because of this, I was told that at least 50% of all cremations in Kathmandu are held on the banks of the Bhagmati.

When Bonnie arrived, she was approached by a very pleasant young Nepali man named Kabrindra who is finishing up his Master’s degree in history at Tribhuvan University. He told her that his American advisor, who now lives in Nepal, told him to use his knowledge of Nepali history to make money by guiding foreigners at World Heritage Sites, of which there are many in Kathmandu. Bonnie told him upfront that she was only carrying a few hundred rupees ($3) and wouldn’t be able to compensate him very well for his time, but he said it didn’t matter. He then proceeded to give her a wonderful two-hour tour of the cremation and temple areas.

There were not many people around that day, but there were some cremations going on at various stages of completion. One would expect there to be an odor, but there was absolutely none. Raised rectangular blocks of cement on the edge of the river were used for the cremations, and various ones were reserved for people from different castes (priest, military, business, and untouchable). One was strictly reserved for members of the royal family.

Small pyres were constructed out of teak wood where the bodies were laid. The remains of one body were still smoldering while another family had just begun the rituals of preparing a man’s body. Kabrindra told Bonnie that it takes 2 ½ hours for a man’s body to burn to ash while it takes at least 3 hours for a woman’s body which has a higher percentage of water and fat. After the cremation the ashes are simply swept into the river.

The cremation ritual Bonnie observed was very intricate and included washing the body, wrapping it in a white sheet, carrying the body three times around the funeral pyre, and applying colored dyes. Several blocks of wood were stacked on the body. Before the pyre was ignited, a flaming bundle of straw was briefly touched to the mouth of the deceased since that is where the first and last breaths are drawn. Family members did not appear to be distraught and did not take issue with Bonnie photographing the proceedings. During the cremation the family does not shed tears since those are thought to wash away the spirit of the deceased.

Kabrindra then took Bonnie to other parts of the temple property, including a series of shrines dedicated to Shiva. He also showed her a rocky cliff just upstream of the temple where Hindu holy men live in caves, coming out only very early each morning to pray. Bonnie gave Kabrindra many opportunities to cut the tour short, but he was having a good time, too. He told her the next day was the festival of Janai Purnima (Sacred Thread) where Hindu priests tie a few small threads around your wrist to ward off disease. He gave her his cell phone number in case she wanted to come back.

After coming home and showing me all her cool photos, I agreed to go back with her the next day. When we arrived around 7:30am she called Kabrindra. He was already there and found us within a few minutes. He took us in through a side entrance to avoid the 200 rupee entrance fee (he said it only went into the pockets of bureaucrats, not for upkeep of the temple). We came out at the cremation area. There were none going on at the time, but there were a few men there who had returned to acknowledge the 1-year anniversary of a family member’s cremation.

Unlike the day before, the temple plaza and the banks of the river were packed. Kabrindra repeated some of the explanations to me that he had given Bonnie earlier. Then he took us to an enclosed courtyard where some Hindu priests lived under thatched roofs. They looked like hermits, wearing little clothing and sporting hair that had not been cut for many years. Kabrindra said we were allowed to take photographs of them but it would be expected to give them a small donation of 20 rupees. Bonnie got a great photo of one of them. Kabrindra said that these were the “true” Hindu holy men. The ones that dress up in bright robes, paint their faces and nag tourists for donations (see my “Streets of Kathmandu” posting for a photo of one) are just “costumed beggars” who should be ignored.

We proceeded up some steep stairs to a less crowded area with small shrines. Monkeys were plentiful. On the way up the stairs, one of them darted into the crowd and snatched a bag of chips from a surprised teenage boy! Another gave a false charge at Bonnie when she passed by a little too closely. The monkeys are not really big (about the size of a big cat), but they have some sharp canine teeth that could do some damage if they latched onto your face!

There were many Hindu priests, some very old and some only novices no older than 10, who were sitting in the temple plaza tying the sacred thread around people’s wrists and then dabbing a combination of red and yellow dyes mixed with rice paste onto their foreheads. Bonnie squatted in front of a young novice for her thread and dye. Kabrindra suggested that I give him 30 rupees (less than 50 cents) to help him pay for his religious studies. The holy boy who said his name was "Sam" seemed very pleased with the donation.

We passed by a small statue of the elephant-headed god Ganesha who rides around on a rat as his conveyance. Shiva, his father, rides on a bull. There were many stone carvings of bulls in repose waiting on their master to return. Hindu legend says that Ganesha (in human form) was guarding the entrance to his mother’s (Shiva’s wife’s) cave while she was meditating. Shiva returned after a long absence, not even knowing that the boy was his own son. When the son refused to allow Shiva entrance, Shiva cut off his head. When his wife informed him of his mistake, Shiva said that he would replace his son’s head with the head of the first animal that he saw and thereby bring him back to life. Guess which animal came along first?

The last thing we looked at before leaving was a small temple that was once used for human sacrifice thousands of years ago. On it were engravings of skeletons and even some sexy scenes from the Kama Sutra. Monkeys lounged on the carvings, oblivious to their meaning.

We took leave of Kabrindra after nearly two hours, but not before slipping him 1000 rupees ($15). A small price to pay for such a wonderful tour and probably more than he expected. But we have a soft spot for students working their way through school, especially those with a wife and 4-year-old daughter to feed.

Commuting

One would think that Kathmandu University (KU) would be in Kathmandu, but one would be mistaken. The land that the government had available at the time of the university's founding in 1991 was outside the small town of Dhulikhel about 18-20 miles east of central Kathmandu. The University runs several buses from Kathmandu to the campus in the morning which are supposed to arrive before the first classes begin at 9:00 am. The last class ends at 4:00 pm and the buses leave campus at 4:15 to take everyone back to the city. Anyway, that's the way it's supposed to work. And, from what I'm told, it actually worked that way in the past, taking about 40 minutes in each direction.

Then, about 5-10 years ago, the local banks began providing car and motor bike loans to average people. Everyone and their brother purchased some kind of vehicle and began clogging the streets, and most of these streets were not designed for high volume traffic. I'm not even sure that there are traffic laws. There seems to be a set of informal rules that drivers abide by; however, things begin to break down during rush hour and traffic jams, snarls, and gridlocks are common. A few poor traffic cops with face masks to filter out diesel fumes walk up and down the streets doing their best, but it's like trying to drain the ocean with a teaspoon.

I have a 10-15 minute walk in the morning to the bus stop on Dilli Bazaar road. The bus typically arrives at 7:50 am and then makes good progress through the city. The first slowdown comes when it heads east out of town just south of Tribhuvan Airport, but in the morning it usually isn't too bad. The worst morning commute I had was the very first day I went into KU for a faculty meeting. The bus threw a transmission in Bhaktapur, the main city between Kathmandu and Dhulikhel, so we had to stand by the side of the road for half and hour outside the National Tuberculosis Center waiting for the back up bus. That morning the commute was 1 hour and 20 minutes. Coming home, however, was nightmare. There was gridlock in Bhaktapur due to a combination of a truck breakdown, buses parked on the road, and drivers trying to pass and getting stuck in front of cars in the other lane. The evening commute that day was 2 hours and 20 minutes. And those commute times don't include the 15 minute walk to the bus stop in the morning or the 30 minutes of waiting before the bus leaves the KU campus (if you don't get to the bus that far ahead of time, you might not get a seat). My worst total roundtrip commute time so far is 5 hours. The fastest was 2 hours 15 minutes, but that was on a government holiday when traffic was much lighter. Average on-the-bus time is about 3 1/2 hours.

But that doesn't mean I'm sitting on the bus bored to death. There are so many things to look at along the way. Bhaktapur is a pretty gritty area, at least the part that the main road goes through. There are always people to look at and oncoming traffic to send chills up your spine because they never swerve out of the way until the last second. We came within inches of wiping out a fellow on a motor bike the other day. One of the bus drivers couldn't be more than 18 and he drives like Jeff Gordon, pedal to the metal. The other driver is more mature and a little more considerate of other drivers. Yesterday, coming down the long steep hill from Dhulikhel back into the Kathmandu Valley, I noticed that he gave a little Hindu prayer sign with his hand. I didn't know if this was a prayer to the new statue of Shiva's wife, Pravati, that is going up on a nearby hill or if he was asking the gods for the brakes not to fail.

I always breathe a sigh of relief when the bus leaves Bhaktapur and starts the ascent into the hills toward Dhulikhel. Things get much more pastoral, the traffic thins out considerably, and the air is cleaner. The advertising signs also get more entertaining. My favorites are Shakalaka Boom Noodles and one that advertises cheese balls by saying, "Go out and buy some balls!"

Yesterday was another bad commute day, but as I sat sweating in the exhaust fumes near the airport coming home, I glanced north out of the window to see a spectacular sight. For the first time since we had arrived, the glaze of humidity and cloud cover had receded just enough to show a few snow capped peaks of the Himalayan Range in the distance. It finally struck me that I'm really in Nepal.

P.S.- Getting ready to leave for my morning commute I received a call from the Chairman of my department. There had been a very bad accident on the road to Dhulikhel and no traffic will be able to get through for several hours. They've had to cancel classes today.

A Buddhist Shrine and Monastery

One of our first walks in Kathmandu took us to the Buddhanath stupa (shrine) in the northeastern district of Tusal. We left early in the morning to try to avoid the crowded streets and heat, but were unlucky on both counts. We had to pass through one of the busiest intersections in town at Chabahil and weave our way through choking traffic.

At the entrance to the stupa was a kiosk where foreigners paid 200 rupees ($3) to enter. You could see the imposing white dome of the stupa through the brick entryway. It was topped with a flag-draped tower on which the eyes of Buddha had been painted on all four sides. Worshipers walked clockwise on the walkway that ringed the shrine while vendors and tourists used the outer concentric walkway. Three to four story brick buildings surrounded the area like a circular castle wall.

The tower of the stupa was at least 50 feet high with painted carvings around the periphery of the base. Prayer wheels were distributed around the edge for worshipers to twirl as they passed. A flock of pidgeons were in constant attendance owing to the vendor who sold feed corn for visitors to throw to them. A young woman proudly showed off her baby to Bonnie as we walked past.

After spending 45 minutes there we decided to attempt a journey to the Kopan Buddhist Monastery a few miles to the north. Our landlady, Prabha, had told us that it would be well worth the effort. It took awhile to make our way through a maze of winding alleys, but we finally found the main road (Shiromani Marg) and could see the monastery in the distance atop a hill. After pausing for a few cows to pass by, we started up the dusty road.

It was not a typical day for the monsoon season -- there weren't many clouds to block the hot sun and there was no sign of rain. We had put on sunscreen and were wearing hats, but the end of the day would find us both with mild sunburns. We hadn't brought any water and were parched by the time we made it to the monastery gates. Not knowing if we should knock or even if they were taking visitors, we stopped at a small refreshment shop nearby, bought some cold drinks, and sat on the steps to cool off.

A monk, at least 65-years-old, came walking our way from the monastery. He was slightly stooped, but wore a braoad smile, a burgandy robe, and big Ray Ban sunglasses. A dog that had been sleeping near us suddenly perked up and jumped playfully at him as he approached the shop. The monk grinned at us and said, "See, he knows me. He's trying to talk to me. He was probably a human in his previous life." Then the dog started doing a low crawl in the dirt. "Probably a soldier," the monk laughed.

That began a nearly two hour conversation with Tashi Tsering who had put on the monk's robes only 18 years ago after being hired by the monastery to teach English to the young initiates. The first half hour was a time of introductions and filling in our backgrounds. When he discovered I was a biology professor, he insisted that I come back sometime to give a talk at the monastery. He said that Buddhism and science are two sides of the same coin. I got his cell phone number and promised to call.

By then the monastery was opening to the public (10:30 am) so we entered the gates and started wandering around the buildings and gardens. The view was spectacular: the Kathmandu Valley to the west and green terraced hills to the east. In a well manicured garden area was an elaborately carved and painted shrine. On a wall engraved in metal were quotations from the Dalai Lama, and on a chalkboard outside an office were quotes for the day from Aristotle and Pascal. Another sign asked visitors to refrain from lying, stealing and killing while on the premises. Monks roamed around in groups going about their daily routines. I went inside their temple which had an ornate Buddha statue and paintings along the walls. A single monk was stationed by a side door.

As we prepared to leave, Tashi spied us again and came over to us. He said if we had time he could give us a tour. Of course we said yes! Tashi is a teacher and therefore a talker. He told us about the 5 and 8-year-old boys who lived in separate apartments in the monastery, reincarnations of recently deceased lamas. He took us to the spot where the last head lama of the monastery was cremated and told us of the 23 relics found in the ashes and the rainbow that appeared as his body burned. We walked in the garden as he related the early life of Buddha and his quest for enlightenment. And, finally, he admitted his love of Mark Twain and his soul's connection with America. In fact, many Americans come to the monastery every year for courses in Buddhist philosophy.

After an hour and a half, we said our good-byes and started the long hot 5-mile walk back home, stopping only at the gate of a Buddhist nunnery halfway down the hill where the nuns raised money by selling snacks and soft drinks. We sat there in the shade with a few of the shaven headed sisters reflecting on what a good day it had been. It struck me how peaceful the monastery was, especially compared to the chaotic Hindu temples in the city. Too bad that Buddhists don't have any desire to run the world -- they'd do a much better job than the one's running it now.

The Streets of Kathmandu

The area of Western Maine where we live has a population density of less than 25 people per square mile. The population density of Kathmandu is over 25,000 people per square mile! To say the least, it took awhile to get over a sense of claustrophobia -- which is only heightened by the narrow streets and alleys that make up the majority of Kathmandu's thoroughfares It's taken us a full two weeks and about 65 miles of walking to learn to flow with the crowds and traffic. The trick is to keep moving, be politely assertive, always look both ways multiple times before crossing a street, be predictable (no sudden moves), and place more trust in the drivers than you really want.

The purpose of the non-stop honking, we've discovered, is to alert other vehicles and pedestrians that they're about to be passed. The car or motorbike then assumes that you will either move aside or at least maintain your bearing and speed until it can get around you. It might pass within inches, but that's when you have to have faith in the driver. Only once in two weeks did we see a pedestrian come close to getting creamed, and we've seen no collisions. There is obviously a method to the madness.

In the eastern half of the city, where we live, it is very unusual to see Westerners; they tend to congregate in the tourists areas of Thamel and Durbar Square. But even so, people on the street don't seem to pay much attention to us aside from an occasional stolen glance. Nepalis whom I have met in person have been very friendly, but Nepalis on the street are not inclined to smile or strike up a conversation with us, but that's true of any big city in the U.S., too. It probably doesn't help that I'm six-four and tend to look more serious than I really am. Bonnie found out yesterday, when she went to a few nearby shops, that people open up more to her when she's by herself. I guess I can be a little intimidating.

I've had to modify my impression of urban Kathmandu since that first shell-shocked 10-minute drive from the airport. Dire poverty certainly exists, but the vast majority of people you pass on the street appear healthy and meticulously clean despite the ever present mud of the monsoon season. There are far more younger than older people and most either wear school uniforms or the same casual clothes that any American teenager would wear. Occasionally, a girl will wear something a bit more revealing than we were led to believe was "acceptable" by Nepali standards, but that's all likely due to quickly changing attitudes brought on by Western TV and advertising. I've seen Britney Spears' midriff at least ten times on bar signs and T-shirts since I've been here.

Beggars are mostly concentrated in the tourist areas, on the wide sidewalks of main roads, and on the pedestrian overpasses on Durbar Marg and Kanti Path. Most will be sitting and quietly ask for money as you pass, but some are more active and even recruit their young children to help. We passed by one little girl, no older than 4 or 5, who was obviously pretending to cry in an effort to tug on the heartstrings of passers by. Giving money to the truly destitute (the very old, lepers, and the blind) is something you see many Nepalis do, but we've been told not to give money to street children because they will often spend it on glue to sniff. It's better to donate to a charity that can help them. At Hindu temple sites, such as Durbar Square, holy men in bright robes roam around asking for money or want to be paid after volunteering to pose for a photo. They can be very insistent and will follow you for several minutes hoping to wear you down. My small donation to one was met with a request for more. Because of that, I prefer to visit Buddhist temples where the monks are much more laid back. They welcome donations but don't actively seek them.

There is also quite a bit of hard selling here. Perhaps it's considered "active marketing" by the locals, but taxi drivers, rickshaw drivers, and some shopkeepers and street vendors will be very insistent and sometimes follow you down the street. I'm trying to learn to ignore it all and not let it get under my skin.

We have yet to feel unsafe or threatened anywhere we've been so far, and we've walked through some pretty grungy alleys. The security officer at the US Embassy who gave us a briefing last week said that the streets are pretty safe as long as you're not inebriated late at night trying to find your way home in a strange part of town. A group of young men might take advantage of the situation and relieve you of your money. Violent crime is rare. Yesterday we went out at night for the first time and, despite the dearth of street lighting, we felt very safe walking to and from the Thamel District. Of course, it was raining like hell and no person in their right mind would be outside!

Settling In

It's taken us about a week to get settled into our apartment in the Gyaneshwor district of Kathmandu which is a little east of the central part of the city. Fortunately, the Fulbright Commission office is less than a minute's walk from us and the staff there has been wonderful.

When we first arrived we were handed a wad of rupee notes to get us through the first few days then escorted to our apartment where we met our landlady, Prava. She had spent time in the States earning a master's degree and has a son in Iowa, so we feel very comfortable with her. She and the Fulbright staff gave us a tour of the house including how to use the water purifier, water heater, water pump and small propane range. Later on, she came by with a list of utility bill estimates and asked how much we wanted to use Sita, the maid. Since we're not used to having domestic help, we decided to have her come by only three days a week to clean, do laundry, and cook the evening meal. Sita only speaks a few words of English, but between hand signals and my Nepali phrase book, we manage to get by. She lives inside the compound in a small house with her husband Krishna (who keeps track of bills, gardens, and acts as a security guard) and their 4-year-old son. Sita is a sweetheart and always in a good humor.

The apartment is spacious with an entry room and kitchen/dining area on the first floor, a master bedroom/bathroom, small bedroom, a second bathroom and a small living room with a 13-inch TV (which gets HBO and CNN) on the second floor, and a storage room and rooftop terrace on the third floor. There is also a very narrow terrace on the second floor. Prava's place is attached to ours. There is an 8-foot brick wall with barbed wire on top surrounding the half-acre compound and a lockable gate exiting onto Devi Marg, the small alley we live on.

Prava suggested that Bonnie and Sita walk to the Bhatbhateni supermarket/department store about a 15 minute walk away in order to pick up some essentials to get us through the first few days. Bonnie came back a few hours later by taxi a little flustered because of her inability to communicate with Sita. Plus, Sita seemed to be in a hurry. Despite all that, Bonnie brought home bags of food and household items. Later that day, I walked back there with Bonnie so we could get a better idea of what the store had to offer. It actually has almost everything you need: a large supermarket, fresh vegetable and fruit stand on the first floor then three more floors with shoes/clothing, appliances/electronics, and household goods. Generally the prices are less than in the States, but there are a few things (mainly processed foods) that are significantly more expensive. Imported European cheese is $16 per pound!! Beer is about $1 per can and wine starts at $5 per bottle. Canned goods are $1-2 each. Most of the fruits and especially the veggies are very inexpensive. Five pounds of potatoes is less than $1.

The apartment was furnished and had a few kitchen items, but we had to buy silverware, a frying pan, a toaster, an iron, a fan (an absolute must for comfortable sleeping), buckets and plastic containers for Sita, a mop, etc., etc. The Fulbright Commission gives us a $500 "settling in" allowance, and it looks like we'll be using all of it. A couple of other expenses were cell phones (about $35 each and another $15 each for God knows how many minutes) and the DSL internet installation ($32) with wireless modem ($70). It took several days to get the internet working because there wasn't enough signal coming through the telephone drop wire which had to be replaced. But now the wireless connection is great and relatively fast. It will cost us about $13 per month. All together for all utilities, Sita's part-time services, and pitching in a little for Krishna's work, our overall monthly expenses will be less than $70. We have no idea how much the rent is because we don't have to pay it -- the Fulbright Commission pays that directly to Prava.

By the end of the first week we had made several more trips to Bhatbhateni for supplies and Sita had finally settled into a Tuesday, Friday, Sunday schedule (after we had requested a Monday, Wednesday, Friday schedule -- but what does it really matter?). Sita's cooking is very good, especially after we requested that she omit the salt, use very little oil, and go heavy on the spices. She's partial to ginger, garlic and onions.

While settling in, we started exploring the streets of Kathmandu, the subject of my next posting.

Arrival in Kathmandu, July 28th

"In Nepal we don't fly through clouds -- there might be rocks in them." This famous Nepali pilot's quote ran through my head as we descended into Kathmandu. Every once in awhile I could see a chunk of a foothill mountain peek through the whispy, spider web clouds. The valley below was a beautiful lush green despite being viewed through eyes that hadn't slept in two days.

The humidity of the monsoon season hit us like a soft brick wall as we exited the plane onto the tarmac of Tribhuvan International Airport. A brief, but confusing, conversation ensued with an immigration official over our temporary visa status, but after conferring with a colleague and stamping our passports and other pieces of paper a dozen times he sent us on our way to the baggage area. Several young men with luggage carts insisted on helping us although we assured them that having gotten the bags nearly 10,000 miles we could probably drag them another few feet. To our surprise, all the bags showed up within a few minutes. Customs agents sitting next to an X-ray machine automatically waived us and everyone else through the green "nothing to declare" exit. We could have brought a small horse into the country.

Only when you finally step outside the terminal do you realize that you're not in Kansas anymore, Toto. Hundreds of people lined the street waiting for flights to arrive, to help with bags, or drive you into the city. I spied our driver, Bijaya Gurung, holding an identifying sign. He approached us with three other men who I assumed were with him. One was a mentally disabled young man who was very aggressive in grabbing one bag. Bijaya took one and Bonnie and I kept the other two. The other men looked frustrated. Only after putting the bags in the van did I realize that Bijaya came alone and the others were hustling for tips. Not having any Nepali currency, I gave the fellow a dollar bill which seemed to satisfy him.

The next ten minutes were an experience in sensory overload as we drove the three miles through Kathmandu to the Fulbright Commission office. Small cars and motorbikes all honking for no apparent reason, all driving in no apparent lane, paying attention to no apparent traffic signs. Exhaust fumes thick in the air. People walking on the sides of the muddy road only inches from passing vehicles. Three and four story buildings side-by-side in miserable condition plastered with brightly colored advertising signs, some without windows or doors. Garbage heaps on the sidewalks. Naked toddlers being bathed by laughing mothers in orange saris. A half-naked holy man with matted hair and piercing eyes staring at me as we passed. Shanties lining the narrow Dhohi Khola River where sacred cows grazed with impugnity. Vendors everywere selling everything.

I looked over at Bonnie and with my eyes I asked her, "What have we gotten ourselves into?"