A welcome diversion from your daily breakfast

So, in spite of the fact that I have an ongoing story to complete, I'd like to take time away this morning to examine the complete awkwardness of family interactions in Nepali culture and my hatred of the caste system. Case in point:

(By the way, Hogs 24-Bama 23. Sloppy. Houston -- scholarship kicker please? I've met a few Nepali orphans who could accurately boot the besneezes out of the ball and would really benefit from the free American education. And shoes.)

OK, so, yesterday, being Sunday, we had a big "Couple who has been married for over a year have their parents finally meet each other and everything goes wrong" celebration. I think that was pretty self-explanatory. No Robert De Niro or Mr. Jingles, but we had enough weirdness to compensate.

Rita, a Christian, and Santos, a Hindu (equally yoked, what?), have been married almost a year and a half, but the folks have never interacted. Partially because they come from different castes, Santos' being the higher, and thus, Rina's family is looked upon as being sub-human. Like, breathe through gills and live below the earth's crust with the Morlocks sub-human. Rina has met Santos' family before, but apparently things didn't go quite well and she hasn't seen them since. And you thought your in-laws (or milkman, if not yet married) were bad.

Rina seems to take it in stride however, and had mentioned to us earlier in the week that her husband's folks were coming by on Sunday for lunch. I think back to my American experiences, making the oft mistake of assuming. If you plan on traveling to East Asia in the near future, please don't assume. You will be made a fool, and probably end up eating yak excrement as a joke. Nevertheless, the last time I recall meeting a girl's parents, it involved barbecue, her grandfather farting in my face, and me getting tipsy off of heavy margeritas and hiding that from said flame and parents rather well. I think.

So Sunday rolls around, and upon waking, I find that Barnum and Bailey's has set up a temporary rest stop in the pavilion in front of the orphanage. A grand tent, complete with wait staff and seating for 50, has been set out, Rina is decked out in a golden sari and brass jewelry, and the orphans have been rushed off to parts unknown, i.e. school. Rina and "Mummy" (her mom and CWC's founder, Rupa, as we affectionately and obediently refer to her) are frantically rushing around the house, fluffing pillows, spraying air freshener to rid the orphanage of our stank, refluffing the pillows, preparing flowers, waxing the floors, and refluffing the pillows yet again. Rina gives me a stack of saris and a dress shirt to gift wrap with approximately one square foot of wrapping paper. I lay hands on the wrapping paper and pray fervently, and lo and behold, more wrapping paper--brought by one of the children because Rina forgot it. Feel free to continue thinking of me as a miracle worker though.

The guests begin arriving in an armored Mercedes, and by guests, I mean Santos' entire family. Grandma, grampy, uncle Buck, crazy aunt Whatever-Her-Name-Is. All of them. Carload after carload, I count at least 20, but still, his parents are not here. Jason and I bide our time by sitting on the floor in the television room with rest of Rina's family upstairs, purposefully not talking to each other. Rina's family ask us questions about America like, "Is it nice?" and "You are from America, yes?" One woman begins breast feeding; Jason promptly leaves the room, while I take the opportunity to peruse the photos on the walls for the fortieth time. Breast feeding=gross. Baby birds eating=gross. Yak butter=gross.

Everybody finally shows, and we make a big pomp and circumstance by giving all of Santos' family a flower and a tika (that red smattering of rice and paste on the forehead that every Hindu in your 6th grade World Cultures book had), uttering the Nepali welcome of "Namaste" to each. One of the older orphans, Ramesh (Charlie Luu 2.0), informs me that the way I am greeting each person by bowing is offensive, even though this is the way he taught me 10 minutes ago. I am the butt of an orphan joke. AGAIN.

Upstairs, we all sit on the floor in a circle, Jason and I in the corner with Hilda, a German girl who is also working with us as a volunteer. Everyone else, including us westerners, receive the tika, and for the rest of the day, I have to deal with Jason jokingly asking me "Is this a sin?" Later that night, I kill him in his sleep. If you are reading this, please send me a new, living volunteer partner. Preferably a pretty southern one, of the female persuasion, who enjoys Ryan Adams and Cubs basbeall.

Waiters bring in appetizers such as excrutiatingly hot potatoes, drumsticks, fish sticks, and some sort of vegetable hush puppy. And Coke! And Mountain DEW!!!!!!!! I am His beloved and He is mine, thank you Jesus! Meanwhile, nobody talks; nobody. Santos' family look like they would rather be getting tortured with olive oil and a hyperactive ferret. One lady in green, whom I will refer to hereafter as "Miss Judy", looks sour enough to be a representative of the Slugworth candy factory. She makes a mental note to stare at me and frown constantly, unless I look at her, in which case she quickly averts her eyes as if she were some sophomore college girl who didn't want me to know she was looking at me. But I know Miss Judy... I know... I contemplate throwing my vegepuppy at her, but I am here as an observer first, assassin second, and Christian somewhere down the list. So no misbehavior, for Rina I tell myself.

Rina is paraded in in all of her golden beauty (and yes, even pregnant, she is quite beautiful), and meets the fam. Mummy gives each of the women in Santos' family my poorly wrapped miracle gifts, which are tossed in a pile and later nearly left behind, and Rina trails behind, stopping at each woman to touch their feet and then press her hands to her lips. The women break character for about a minute and all laugh, as though this is all some cruel joke at Rina's expense. Then, when Rina is done humiliating herself, its back to stern lunchlady mode. Miss Judy is not pleased.

Everybody heads downstairs for the meal under the giant tent. Oh, did I mention its been raining nonstop for three days at this point? So the rugs which our tent is made out of are soaking wet, the ground is soaking wet, but still we eat. The two families do not speak to each other, no cordial words, no hellos or goodbyes or "Hey, thanks for the mutton curry!" at any point. Santos' folks stuff their faces full of peanut butter marsala (not American peanut butter, but some horrific butter made of peanuts; Jason gags on his and chooses to eat 3 lbs worth of pita bread instead) and curds and whey before retreating to the Decepticon Mercedes for their return to Mordor. Once the family is gone, the orphans and released from the house to join us, and for once, the party takes an upswing. The kids are laughing, chugging the cold water, tossing hunks of mutton at each other. Jason and I retreat upstairs when we hear some American music, but alas!!!!!! Bryan Adams!!! Backstreet Boys!!!! Wham???

So there you have it. Meet the Parents, Nepali style. No toking on Puff the Magic Dragon, although the potatoes do have a hallucinogenic effect to them. Add in some Bryan Adams crooning of "Everything I Do, I Do For You," and what more could you want? How about social ethics and lovingkindness? Or toilet paper? Oooooh....FORKS.

I love you all. Email me, pray for me (been sick over the weekend with a stomach virus, language acquisition sucks, cynicism ::surprise!!:: with the culture, not sleeping, etc...), pass my blog on to your friends. And God's sake, come visit us!!!!!

Join me next time for: Greed, deception, and an airport greeting straight out of H.P. Lovecraft!