The Bear Crumbles Under Pressure

Due to the frequent demands of many a visitor to my blog, Gennie Davis in particular, I have indeed caved in and purchased a digital camera: the HP IXUS 65 to be exact. So for those of you who have continually addressed a desire to see what Nepal, and my emergent jawline, look like, I'll just be expecting a sizable donation of financial support in the near future. Or a nice email telling me how r0x0r5 I am.

You have my sincerest apology for the lack of photos over the last month. I "accidentally" packed my digital camera and left it in a box in storage befure leaving the States, electing to let Jason be my cub reporter/photographer for the duration of our international journey (get it? I'm the bear. Jason's the "cub? Get it? No, you suck). I'd be the mouth, and Jason would be the eyes. However, despite my totally 1337 writing skills (and complete lack of bias or journalistic integrity), sheer flair with language pales in comparison to visual stimuli. Or some such. Add to that Jason's camera being stolen by a former CWC orphan, and the posting of photos becomes an impossibility. Thus, we both purchased cameras just to err on the safe side; well, and I really wanted a nice one. In all honesty though, Jason, being the better bargainer given his past travels in Russia, probably got a better deal. Bah...

So coming in the very near future: photos, photos, and even longer, wordier posts. That's right. If I must be forced to empty my checking account for the sake of your living vicariously through my traipsing halfway across the world (how many verbs was that in one sentence), then I'm gonna make you pay for it with your lunch break. Imagine your own maniacal laughter here, as my throat hurts from tuk-tuk exhaust too much to provide sound effects at the moment. If my wordiness and prolonged Eggers-ian sentence structure was difficult to keep pace with before, then you best get yourself some Xanex. I'm going James Joyce from here on out: we're talking epic status, if in fact a visit to the Patan hospital for hepatitis innoculations can be described as such. Plan on seeing consistent and constant use of my favorite piece of punctuation, the ellipsis, in the near future...

Enjoy your respective mornings, afternoons, teatimes. I miss you all, but our separation is a pleasant one, in the eternal perspective. No Maoist attacks yet, but I doubt they've forgotten us, even though calendars are in short supply in their little forest shanties. Continue praying brothers, sisters, and assorted household pets. Bear out.

"You Can't Hide, Standing Under These Stars"

With the spirit of October beginning to wane, it has become official: I am pining for the oaken halls of Cain’s Ballroom. Apples, pumpkins, the trees of I-540, and the inevitable costume party at which my costume will fail to be recognized (Ashton Kutcher and Richie Tennenbaum both failed to register with anybody but the Twood the last two years): these are all but afterthoughts in light of how I yearn to hear Martin Sexton in person once again. For now, the hills of Godavari must continue to suffer under the anxiety that accompanies my off-key wailing of “When Paula Sparks Up,” the piano melodies of Billy Joel and Death Cab for Cutie echoing throughout a forgotten valley.

So it is that with falsetto somberness that I begin what is in fact my most joyous of updates since arriving in East Asia. No, Jason has not been devoured by a komodo dragon, though I do thank those of you who have in fact been praying fervently for just such an occurrence (I can think of one Dallas seminary student in particular). No outrageous events for the most part, at least in my opinion. No miraculous recovery of my beloved iPod, though it has started to drift in and out of lucidity now and again, reviving long enough to spurt bits and pieces of Counting Crows during the longer bus rides before slipping back into a comatose state.

No, my joy has been made complete because Jason and I have at last discovered a church here in Nepal; not just any church mind you, but one that has a service in English! I won’t lie, I was bored to tears in the Nepali church the children attend here. Sitting through a worship service given in a foreign tongue is fascinating enough as long as it remains an isolated event; prolonged exposure to hour-long sermons in routine fashion becomes an exercise in tedium. I found myself harkening back to my elementary days in the back of the First Baptist sanctuary with my parents, chewing on my sweater collar and reading “Lyle, Lyle, Crocodile” while the adults nodded along with Brother John. In my confusion over whether the pastor was teaching out of Zechariah or Redbook, a desire to play with my mother’s car keys or watch band began to simmer in the depths of my soul. After several weeks of not attending a worship service, period, and living my community out through isolated rooftop worship sessions and a library worth of mp3 sermons, I was about read to admit defeat, resigned to being an isolated Christian in a subversively hostile country.

Thus, Jason and I nearly danced (I’m not allowed to, as per the aforementioned Baptist background kept me from learning such skills as a child) when Rina told us that she had at last discovered the location of the international church Jason had been pestering her over without ceasing for the last month. While I’m not at liberty to share the name of our newfound body, I can assure you that it is a beautiful representation of the menagerie that is God’s character: the service we attended included Nepalis, Indians, Americans, a British couple, Malaysians, Australians, Phillipinos, Turks, Canadians, Chinese, Tibetans, a group of tourists from Singapore, and even a South African. I'm now of the impression that looking upon God is much like looking through a kaleidoscope, if'n that makes any sense. The pastoral staff is completely comprised of Nepali men, though there is an American who serves as an associate pastor over the English services.

Following the worship and the message, we were immediately approached by said associate pastor, a New Yorker, and a Mississippian aide worker; naturally, the first subject of conversation, as is always in America, was Bill Clinton (dear God, NO, I do not know him personally). “Flintstone,” as I will refer to my new congregational shepherd, invited Jason and I to accompany him and his wife (“Wilma” shall be her new name) to a local coffee shop for lunch. Flintstone and Wilma shared that they have been living in Nepal as missionaries for over five years now, astounding considering how difficult it is to get a long-term visa in this country! However, with Wilma’s nursing background and Flintstone’s experience in the alternate universe that is professional engineering (he looks like Eric Dacus’ father, eerily enough), the two found it simple to get jobs in the city: God at rather obvious work.

Oh, and what a coffee shop we found! Wireless Internet (soon), big comfy chairs, cinnamon rolls the size of Jason’s torso, and a honest to God WESTERN TOILET. Oh, oh, and the best part? Aside from an amazing menu that includes banana pancakes, beef sausage that doesn't leave a displeasing yak aftertaste, and cheesecake, these guys make freaking MEXICAN FOOD! Holy intercessory prayer of the American saints Batman! Salsa! Jason and I returned the following afternoon for breakfast burritos that rivaled the birth weight of most newborn infants, fresh-made pico de gallo, and a sit-down visit to the restroom. I wept on that toilet seat, and I am not ashamed to admit to it. The real treasure of the afternoon was the browniecino: a frappucino mixed with brownie mix, with a $1.25 price tag to rival the Arsegas and Starbucks dominion. I support local business, but I just happen to now be in a new locale.

Aside from the utter shock of finding a menu that is seemingly tailored to serve every food I miss from America, I received another surprise in our fellowship for the afternoon. Flintstone and Wilma introduced us to a group of about 10 other American missionaries, all of whom have been working in Nepal for prolonged periods of service. We received more warnings, councils of spirit, and sage advice than one lunch provides room for the absorption of, not that it mattered as I was too shocked by having a clear conversation in my own tongue to notice. The bacon in my sandwich didn’t help any either.

Jason, as is per his routine, sized up our sisters with the inevitable wedding ring glances that single 25-year-old men are prone to, I being far too mature to submit myself to such frivolities (I have the involuntary spiritual gift of celibacy). “BLT” was particularly helpful, beautiful, Canadian, and married, much to the Jason’s dismay. BLT spent eight years working as a volunteer in children’s homes in Nepal and India, and her experience has and will continue to be indispensable to us in our time here. Particularly, she was persistent in advising us avoid seeking the introduction of changes into the pattern of leadership at CWC, and to take care that we don’t undermine Rina and Mommy’s authority in our attempts to help improve the children’s lifestyle.

BLT told us about the growing horrors of the children’s hostel business here in Nepal that she had witnessed firsthand: crooked businessmen starting orphanages to gain government grant money, and then erecting shoddy prisons under the guise of children’s homes and staffing them with bitter and abusive employees. Just days before, she told us, a group of 35 orphans had been dropped off at a local hospital by the police, nearly beaten to death and suffering horrible burns: they had been horribly abused and locked inside their hostel by the owner, who then torched the building (children still inside mind you) to collect the insurance on it. Absolutely sickening, and according to BLT, its becoming a fairly common practice.

The subject of being burned alive was quickly picked up on by the lone Nepali believer who had joined us for lunch; forgive me for failing to remember his name. “Teacher” shared with our table how he had formerly been the principal of a private school in a remote village in the western half of the country. Teacher was approached one afternoon by a group of Maoists (see previous post, or http://www.bbc.com/ for info) who demanded that he pay them tribute for protection. Teacher refused, so the Maoists Rock Bottomed him into unconsciousness and torched his office with the 25 gallons of gasoline they’d conveniently left in the hallway. Teacher came to and managed to escape, while on fire, through an uncovered ventilation shaft in the ceiling. The school was burned to the ground, and Teacher spent nearly two years recovering from burns that covered 35% of his body. He showed us his scarred, tattered legs to drive the point home. No sad ending to this story though. Teacher is wildly optimistic about his future working in the city as a tutor and mentor for at-risk youth, in spite of his quiet demeanor, and he’s also a fellow believer, so you, oh reader, will get to share a pint with him sometime throughout the course of eternity.

After dessert and coffee, Flintstone gave me directions to two local Christian bookstores and invited Jason and I to join him this Thursday morning for a men’s discipleship time. In the meantime, he promised to find us some local contacts to build shelving for the art room Jason and I are casting vision for, as well as for blankets and comforters for our children. Flintstone, thou art the connection to inner Kathmandu that I have been praying for.

Jason and I visited the bookstores that afternoon, finding enough bibles at an incredibly cheap price to personally give one to each of our orphans. The other bookshop primarily houses educational fare, but I grabbed a copy of Catch 22 and 12th Night; Jason salivated over the massive library of Sweet Valley Twins and Nancy Drew, but settled for Freakonomics (at my suggestion) and To Kill a Mockingbird, amongst others. This place has everything by the way: I've got future plans to back and pick up some science and geography texts, as well as a collection of classical literature, Shakespeare, and R.L. Stine (I'm sorry, but I loved those stupid Goosebumps books as a 6th grader). And if any of you have a copy of Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing or Superfudge sitting at home, please, please send them!

So there you have it: a multitude of casual prayer requests, and one rather massive spiritual need, answered in the course of one afternoon. However, despite all the goodness, we still need continued prayer. I'm sick with my third Nepali cold, and the exhaust fumes from the city are starting to give me massive headaches every time I come into town. Rina has been sick with the flu for the last 2 weeks herself, and because she's only three months from her delivery date, her doctor refuses to allow her to take any meds, so pray for swift and full recovery. Jason has been struggling with irritability with some of the younger children, so pray for healing of his heart and mind. The rest of our children return from holiday this weekend and return to school next Monday, so pray for their safe return to us, and our renewed efforts to care for them with respect and compassion.

Our biggest priority at the moment however is the Maoists. There was an armed conflict in the city this morning, or so went local rumors, that held up traffic for 2 hours. On top of that, Maoists have been visiting all the local children's homes to announce that they will be stopping by to sing and dance in return for sizable "donations" in the near future; I'm not making this up, its apparently tradition within yet another of the Hindu festivals that ends today. We thought that CWC had been overlooked after receiving no word for several days from any Maoist messengers, but a letter was delivered Sunday while Jason and I were at church announcing that they would be stopping by in the very near future.

In light of the story I heard from Teacher, this stirs a new fear within me: what happens when the Maoists find out that there are Americans working within CWC? They have been demanding tributes from trekkers in the mountains of upwards of $300 per person, and I will not, and cannot afford to, pay them anything. Will we be harrassed, terrorised, or burned to the ground? Please remember us in your prayers, and like the Passover angel, pray that the Maoists conveniently forget to visit us again, or are transformed by the message of the gospel of our salvation if we must come face to face.

More news to come in the near future...

Godavari (For the Unemployed and Underpaid)

Well, great. Thus far, my time in Nepal had been relativly uneventful, at least from the perspective of a white soccer mom in Northwest Arkansas. Well, save for the whole goat slaughter thing. So much for safety. This’ll be the blog where you guys start telling me to come home.

I’m pretty foolish when it comes to seeking out adventure. I’m the one who always wants to see the Ozark Spook Light on a school night or break into the abandoned insane asylum in Conway (if it in fact exists), the one who wants to collect road kill around Lake Wedington for the purpose of prank retribution, the idiot who is actively seeking out the gang members in inner-city Chicago to tell them about Jesus. I don’t have much foresight when it comes to determining what could and could not cause me bodily harm. I refuse to go sky-diving, but I’ll eat the private parts of a freshly killed farm animal or give my testimony to a subway car full of strangers on their way to a Cubs game. And even if I don’t go looking for trouble, it seems to find me out anyway, in the form of neighborhood meth labs, police busts on Casa Taco robbers (ask Eric Dacus if you don’t believe me), and elderly neighbors with broken hips. All this to say, I’m a magnet for outlandishness, which wouldn’t be as much of a problem if I wasn’t also prone to exaggerations. And somewhere, Hunter Goff is rejoicing at my admission.

Ahem. Now that you’re adequately prepared for the ridiculousness that is myself, its storytime. Again.

Tale #1: Say Yes! To Mao!sts!

So, a quick recap on the events of the last week, or at least the parts that don’t involve me sitting on the roof reading a book or sleeping in the TV room to the lullaby of Hindi soap operas. Friday, I ventured into town to email the church and attempt to begin answering the 100+ emails that littered my inbox. Making my way through the marketplace of Lahgunkel, playing the iPod Commercial Game for what would be the final time, I noticed that there was a lot of tension in the air; not that Kathmandu or Patan are places of relative calm or anything mind you. Eventually, I discerned that something was rotten in East Asia, as a loud voice shouting frantic repeated statements in a foreign language drowned out Conor Oberst in my earbuds. Curiousity got the better of the bear, and I changed course to see what was going down.

Now normally, I would call a vehicle armed with massive dual loudspeakers spewing political jargon out of place, but being that Nepal is a country that just underwent massive political upheaval, I’m willing to call an insurgency a spade. Or whatever. The motorized voice weaved through the crowd, never slowing, never ceasing with repeating lines of Hindi chatter. I nudged an elderly man at a kitchen supplies store, pointing toward the commotion with a raised eyebrow: the international sign for “I’m a scared foreigner, please explain what the heck is going on.” I got a tired shrug in response, followed shortly thereafter by a sentence in which I could only understand one word: “Maoists.” Great…

For those of you who are ignorant of the socio-political structure of Nepal, or current affairs that don’t involve Kevin Federline and Jessica Simpson, let me break down the recent history of the country. Starting I believe in 1995, a group of political dissidents from the former Communist Party of Nepal united under the leadership of a man known as Prachandra to form the Maoist Rebellion. Over the last 11 years, the Maoists have pledged themselves to a “people’s war” against whatever Nepali government system happens to be in power, claiming to be fighting on behalf of the people; in reality, the Maoists conscript their soldiers from frightened villagers in the countryside, burning farms and destroying the homes of those who don’t support their anarchist agenda. If that weren’t enough, political instability, including a drunken murder-suicide by the crown prince in 2001 that wiped out most of the royal family, the rulership and deposing of a wicked king, and a chaotic fledgling democratic parliamentary system have weakened Nepal’s international presence and crippled attempts to improve the lives of its people in spite of the conflict. Nearly 30,000 Nepalis have been killed in fighting over the last decade, numbers that while seemingly innocuous compared to crises in Darfur, Sudan, and Uganda, have gone widely unnoticed in the Western news media. And…breathe Jordan, breathe….

So, Maoists. Bad news, right? Well, I’m never one to let a political rebellion get me down, so I continued on my merry and Jason-less (at home playing with orphans) way to the Internet café. After spending an hour unsuccessfully trying to catch up on baseball play-offs, life within the Grove, and several failed attempts to call my folks on Skype, I happened to notice that the buzz outside was growing. I popped my head out the window to check to see if Durbar Square was on fire yet, and to my delight, a political demonstration had broken out. There was a crowd of around 500 people (how’d I miss that?) gathered in the square around a makeshift stage, upon which were several men dressed in camouflage engaging in a roundtable debate with what appeared to be bureaucrats. The Internet, for once, had lost its interest.

I packed up my laptop and ran outside, assuming that I was the only one in the area praying fervently for a riot to break out (just so I’d have something to tell you about). I pushed my way through the crowd a bit, straining to see what was going on; our friends in camo (I always refer to people in fatigues as friends in person, mainly because I enjoy being not ridden with bullet holes) were shouting in the faces of who I was now sure were government officials. In America, we call this civil disobedience; in Nepal, its referred to as Friday. I bumped into a Nepali student fluent in English, who explained that a) the conference was a scheduled debate between city officials and Maoist spokespersons regarding disarmament and city council representation, b) the crowd was frighteningly pro-Maoist, and c) as an American, this was a pretty stupid place for me to be. I agreed, and moved through the crowd to get a little closer to the action. Mistake.

As I was pulling off my patented “swim” maneuver, as taught to me by my former discipler and mentor, Warren Sapp, a guy in green/black fatigues (topped off with a Kurt Cobain t-shirt, nice touch) stopped me and asked if I was from America. I nodded, not really paying attention, and he continued to explain that he was a freedom fighter, just like America. Oh. Piss. I looked around, hoping that I could find a friendly face in the crowd to duck away from this guy, my first flesh and blood Maoist, but most of the people nearby were more interested in seeing me work this out for myself than the debate taking place onstage. The guy said something about blood and mispronounced the word “tyranny,” and suddenly, I was being asked for a donation to “support the people’s revolution.”

As I make it a point not to support international terrorism (save for sending Texans overseas as international students), I assured my new communist friend that “I’d love to give you money, but I’m not in the habit of committing treason.” Not the first time I’ve uttered that sentence in my life either. Maoists don’t like being told no (unless “no” is immediately followed by “more government that serves the needs of its people”), so my friend asked me again politely. He was kind enough to give me a friendly squeeze of the shoulder as well, just in case I misunderstood his request as a, you know, demand for money. I am now scared.

Unfortunately for you and your co-workers, and fortunately for myself, there’s no real resolution to this story. Maoist stooge #1 and I stared at each other for all of about 10 seconds before somebody onstage said something incendiary, and he lost all interest in me as he turned to yell back in response. I squeezed back through the crowd, who were now seemed rather provoked and a bit closer to riot stage, and literally ran all the way back to the bus park. For those of you that are sticklers for details, I must admit: while terrified, I did have the presence of mind to stop and by a Fanta. It cost 11 rupees, the equivalent of 15 cents. There’s that lack of common sense I mentioned rearing its ugly head.

Ok, so that was pseudo-interesting, right up until it tapered off there at the end, right? I mean, you were expecting something exciting, like that knife fight from the Beat It video, or a Brad Pitt cameo. No such luck, not even snake dancing. No twist ending, no Jordan taking his shirt off, not even really all that funny. Stay seated and open another Nutri-Grain bar. This one gets violent…

Tale #2: To the Workers of the Katmandu Valley Region, I Have an Idea Concerning Your Predicament

Nepali transportation will be the subject of a post in the near future, as its something that I’m dying to write about, but it plays a vital role in our story today. There are multiple ways of getting around Nepal, but the most common are via tuk-tuk (think of a motorized tricycle with a covered pick-up bed on the back) and mini-bus (Jason most accurately described these as “that big white van that gunned down Doc in Back to the Future”). Jason and I take a mini-bus any time we need to get into town, as it’s the only means of transport if Rina isn’t taking our car, the beloved Gypsy, into the city that day. Ten rupees gets me crammed into a vehicle that should comfortably seat 15 people, but is instead packed with about 24, all of whom believe that I am the biggest, fattest, stupidest American that has ever lived; I know, because they tell each other these things and laugh at me. Joy.

Occasionally, as in every two weeks or so, there is a labor union strike by drivers of the Kathmandu Valley taxis that shuts the city down completely. Taxi drivers blockade all the streets leading in or out of the main urban areas, turning away all vehicles that try to get by via force. When this happens, its like a national holiday; businesses don’t open because the owners can’t get to work, schools are closed because the teachers are trapped at home, and fat, lazy American volunteers sleep a little later than usual. Even the rumor of a labor strike can shut the city down, forcing me to pause and wonder if somewhere, there’s a very bright 12-year-old pulling the strings so he can stay home and watch Power Rangers with his younger brother all day.

Tuesday morning, I awoke with plans to run into town and catch up on my emails, as I’d found several unread messages in my inbox the day before that were over 2 weeks old (Shaun and Erin, so, sooooo sorry!!!). Rajesh stopped by our room to announce that his college classes were cancelled that day because of a possible impending strike; thus, plans for the day were changed. Jason was particularly frustrated, as he’d been planning to go to Thammel to shop for a new camera (his was stolen several weeks ago by a former CWC child with a penchant for kleptomania). After eating breakfast and sullenly revising our plans for the day (I really wanted to eat a meal in town that wasn’t dhal baat), Rajesh visited again to tell us that the tv was now announcing the strike had been called off. Jason immediately grabbed his wallet and ran out the door to catch a ride into town, leaving me behind to some personal business (I always use the restroom before going into town, because home is where the toilet paper is).

I ran all the way to the bus stop, which is over a mile away and up a huge hill, but Jason was gone, and no running mini-buses in sight. Now, I should’ve picked up right away that something was up: two of the MBs, as I’ll now be referring to them, were parked up the street, the drivers playing soccer inbetween the lanes, with a large crowd of riders watching the traffic coming from town anxiously. Two passengerless MBs rumbled by without even slowing to pick up new fares: this is NOT normal, as there is usually a kid hanging out the window hunting down people who need a ride on the “sidewalk.” One bus finally slows long enough to allow about 30 of us onboard, but the diver refuses to talk to or look at his passengers, whom I notice seem agitated, but not with the long wait or with sitting in each other’s laps. Worry is brewing in my stomach like coffee.

Driving into town is normally similar to a Grand Theft Auto joyride: swerving around motorbikes and dogs, weaving inbetween tankers and fullsize buses to gain those extra seconds needed to pass up another MB and get more fares in the city when the current passengers are kicked to the curb. Today, there is hardly any traffic on the road, and a ton of pedestrians. Something is wrong here…

We’re about 5 blocks from the Lahgunkel drop-off point, when the driver slows the MB to a crawl and turns back to us at last, shouting some orders as the doors open. Since I have yet to get a grasp on most of the language here, I’m clueless, but my fellow pilgrims are officially pissed. The people in the front row of the MB are physically escorted off by a firm grip of the shoulders, yelling and cursing (I’m assuming here) the whole way. As for the rest of our merry crew? Mutiny. Refusals to pay, angry shouting, and an attempted swing at the young boy working as the driver’s assistant: we’re getting close to small-scale riot here. The driver suddenly becomes more concerned with getting reimbursed for the 25 people still in his vehicle, and agrees to continue on into the city.

Now at this point, you’re thinking, Jordan, why are you still in that bus? I am wondering that myself as we start to move forward again, gripping the seat in front of me enough that I tear the stitching on the seat cover a little. In my defense, I honestly thought this had all been a dispute over several people not having money to pay the driver, as the protocol for such a grievous offense is to open the door and boot the sod out in the middle of nowheres at full speed. This is not the case today, but I don’t find that out for another 12 seconds.

The driver speeds up considerably more than is necessary, and as we round a corner at 45 (breakneck speed for Nepali traffic), I see the reason for all of our troubles: a picket line. Fantastic, the strike is on. A group of eight angry men are strung across the street, armed with clubs and sour faces; red dust pockmarks the street between our slowing vehicle and what will be our final destination, suggesting some earlier violence. Unbeknownst to me, Jason had been turned around before he got to this point and was taken back up to the orphanage. I am not so lucky.

Our driver slows to a crawl, and an eventual stop 10 feet from the armed labor union members, leaning his head out the window to shout at them; they comply with what I can once again only assume is more cursing, slowly advancing on our idling coffin. The driver is squirming in his chair, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, and keeps looking up into the rearview mirror at us in the back. Something is going to happen, and I have a very bad feeling about it.

The man who seems to be the leader of the union strikers reaches the MB and places his hand on the driver’s rearview mirror (right side of the vehicle mind you), leaning up to have some words with our coachman. Surprise! Our driver, in a decision that proves to be his undoing, has been playing possum; as the strike leader leans up, Steve McQueen up front floors the accelerator and we pull away, the mirror nearly getting wrenched off in the striker’s clenched brown fist. Several of the passengers cheer, thinking we are going to pull away and make it into the city. We are free!!! We are Jason and his Argonauts, besting the Cyclops! We are unstoppable, unswayable, rulers of the Nepali highway! We are…being attacked with bricks.

I am sitting in the very back corner of the bus when the first brick hits the front side panel, immediately follow by a second that nails the windshield dead center, caving it in without shattering it, cracked into a thousand shards reflecting the coming onslaught into a kaleidoscopic barrage. Bricks begin hammering us from all sides, and one smashes into the rear fender on the other side of my knee; I can feel it reverberate through my chair. The seats are too close together for me to kneel down, so I scrunch my chin into my chest and lean my forehead against the seat frame in front of me; I am not praying, I am cursing, and very loud at that. The burnt red hailstorm continues, miraculously without another broken window, and for some reason, all I can think about it how badly I want Mexican food right now. Other passengers are screaming, a little girl is crying, and I am meditating silently on Flying Burrito Company and pico de gallo.

Just as the attack is reaching its crescendo, it stops; our driver has admitted defeat, stopping the MB and jumping out of the driver’s seat with his hands in the air. He is immediately grabbed by three of the labor union members and dragged off the street, never to be seen by Arkansan eyes again. The rest of us are physically pulled off the bus , myself almost getting grabbed by the hair before the angry striker realizes I’m an American and gives me a polite bow. He winks and says something in Nepali which I now roughly understand to have been, “Enjoy your stay in Kathmandu.” I am not amused, and I’m officially stranded in town.

Its another 15 minute walk to Lahgunkel from our MB, which is officially smoking from under the hood, looking like a defeated Autobot. I hike it into town, hoping I can still find an Internet hub that happens to be open in the tourist attraction that has become a warzone. And nothing is open. Every shop, every restaurant, every fruit stand is vacant; even the street vendors and trekking guides are thankfully absent. I make the most of my opportunity and wander around the square, admiring the ancient architecture without the teeming sea of market traffic swarming underneath temple archways and thatched roofs. I inform the few wandering British and German tourists, who are ignorant of the day’s events, having stayed in a nearby hotel, to which they mostly reply “Bullocks!” and snap photos. I watch bronze workers crafting a metal statue of a six-armed pig god, which looks nothing like Tusk. And I get hungry.

Fortunately, as I begin the six mile hike back to the orphanage, I find an Internet cafe. However, I fail to accomplish anything as an Indian girl named Rachel (I know, I didn't know it was an Indian name either) introduces herself as a Christian; she invites me to come to her church the following weekend and teach their high school ministry. Great. About the time I leave the cafe, I discover that traffic is moving again, so I board another MB with about 30 schoolchildren. I ride the rest of the way back with them asking me my name and whether or not I have a girlfriend, eventually falling asleep on the shoulder of a young boy, and as I drift off, I realize that I never sent the emails I came to town in the first place for. I dream of Mexican food and bricks.

Games Nepali Bears Play

I'd like to lighten the mood (given my somber closure yesterday) and offer some levity by enlightening you as to what exactly it is I do for fun here in Nepal. Ahem. Those who know me pseudo-well would be wise to refer to me as mischiveous, and that is no different in international territory, though I'm not prone to pranking houses because I don't like being chased by foaming wild mutts. Hence, here are several of the games that I've invented to primarily amuse myself since arriving here:

1. Scaring Jason: This game can take several forms, the lamest of which involve pretending I don't have the key to our room or moving something of Jason's around in order to stimulate fury at the thought of Prakash, our resident orphan packrat, rifling through Jason's possessions. A more subtle and humorous "Scare the Jason" tactic is to mention creepy things before we go to bed, involving, in no particular order: crab spiders, the girl from The Ring, Bill Engvall, Edward Loveless' chest hair, Bono in a Superman costume, and myself marrying Jason's sister, Krystal. Last night however, I discovered the most satisfying method of "Scaring the Jason." Are you ready? Sure? Ok, here goes...

Jason, as do most human beings, has to go to the bathroom regularly. Surprised? I know I was. So, one must wait until Jason, in a half-sleep stupor and clad in his mighty boxer-briefs, wanders down the hall to the restroom with his headlamp. The scarer, myself, must then hop out of bed and crawl underneath Jason's bed, pushing his guitar case as far back against the wall as possible to make room. The scarer then waits eagerly for Jason to return, still half-asleep and now surprised that his ministry partner is no longer in bed asleep. Jason will routinely look back down the hall and shine his light around, thinking that said roommate must have gone downstairs to pee or make a rice sandwich or something, and then re-enter the room, deadbolting the door for no apparent reason. The Jason will saunter back over to his bed, pausing for a moment before his conscience gets the better of him, and he kneels down to check underneath.... At which point I yell "Mehhh!" in the voice of that scary little Japanese boy from The Grudge and grab Jason's leg, leading to him mentioning once again how much he hates me.

2. The Hook Count: This one may seem irrelevant, but I enjoy it. Two weeks into our Nepal stay, I began to notice that Jason is a frequent quoter of Hook, the "What-if-Peter-Pan-grew-up-into-the-Genie-from-Alladin?" movie beloved by nearly every kid born between 1981 and 1985. So I started counting on Sunday, October 1. In two weeks, Jason has quoted Hook 12 times, not quite once a day, but pretty close to it, usually in spurts of three quotes. His favorite? "Play...play!" which I believe comes from the part where the twins on skateboards keep throwing basketballs and Robin Williams' gut. Ah, to be a child again, believing that this movie was real... By the way, is there any point in this movie when Julia Roberts is on-camera that she doesn't burst out into that "Bwa-ha-ha!" cackle of hers? Creepy...

3. The Cheap Orphan Scare: Who amongst you, oh loyal 7 readers, doesn't know what a cheap scare is? Very well then, I shall tell you. In a horror movie, when Sarah Michelle Gellar is cautiously sneaking through an abandoned Snickers factory, hiding from bad scriptwriters, and she opens a closet door, only to have a cat jump straight out at the camera (complete with loud cat "rawr" noise) for no apparent reason: that friends, is a cheap scare. The main character turning and bumping into her boyfriend, who shouts menacingly, "HEEEEEYYYYY...who wants licorice?" Also a cheap scare. You get the idea, I hope (though one wonders how all those cats keep getting locked into pantrys and airtight secret vaults...). Anyway, I enjoy hiding around corners and jumping out to scare orphans as they walk through the Welfare Centre's halls in the evenings: the sun is setting, and the interior lighting is just right, having reached a Hitchcockian dimness that just begs for a stupid American to do something absurdly mean and pointless. I am going to be a horrible father some day.

4. My Big, Fat, Nepali iPod Comercial: First off, I can no longer play this game as my iPod has given me the big iFinger and decided to leave me to myself while out of the States. I have my suspicions that foul orphan play was involved in Grizzlepod's death (Prakash again), but no evidence means this will remain an unsolved mystery. Robert Stack, where are you?!?!

Regardless, though this game is on hiatus until I find a way to get a new music device or just up and steal Jason's, it remains my favorite. And before I go any further, I though of this before Jessica Gudondo mentioned it in her blog. So no comparisions or claims of idea theft, 'kay? Ok, so, the makings of my own iPod commercial... Rather simple really...

I hop off the mini-bus in Lahgunkel and pop in my headphones, turning on a danceable song such as Josh Rouse's "Its the Nighttime," Ryan Adam's "Dance All Night," or "The Groom's Still Waiting at the Altar" by Bob Dylan. "Last Goodbye" by Jeff Buckley gets an honorable mention only because its commonplace to namedrop Buckley to sound cool these days (I'm looking at you Liv Tyler, you dirty liar...) Anyway, crank the volume on iPod nearly all the way up, and then dance like a maniac down the street between chamberpot salesmen and banana vendors, singing the lyrics at the top of your lungs. If you want to really make a scene, as I often do, you can hop up on the steps of a building, kicking your legs until a group of young women walk by, jumping down to take one by the hand and spin her around while her friends laugh (and secretly wish that the handsome, fat American had chosen them). Jason denies that any of this has happened, but I maintain that its one of the specific purposes for my often coming into Kathmandu or Patan alone. Its fun, its hilarious, and it can often be an ace in the hole when it comes to bartering for a better price with shop owners. Love me, hate me, I'm leaving my mark on this country.

5. The Brett Harkey Game: This one is relativistically simple. Though I'm currently sporting the infamous "Greenwald Chinstrap," when I wear my hair teased up in the front, I bear a striking resemblance to my favorite worship pastor. Brett and I dress similarly (mainly brown plaids I think) according to Jason, and we share that "he looks kind've chubby, but I know he isn't" physique. Or at least that what I hope we look like... Anyway, this game involves me introducing myself to people I don't want to talk to, i.e. trekking guides and kazoo salesmen, as Brett Harkey. I listen to their schpeil and then just wander away, yelling "Chris Tomlin!" at the top of my lungs. Please note that this game is in its trial stages and is subject to change. Other candidates for this game include Matthew Perry, whom I've already been mistaken for once, that guy from Third Day, and Tyler Durden.

Ru-fee-ohhhhhh!!!!!!!!!

The Post Where I Catch Up on a Lost Week and Mention Jesus a Lot

I'm quickly finding that if I don't visit town often, my inbox fills up (especially after making a massive request for coats and magice markers) and people begin to believe that I either a) hate them, b) ignore them, c) am using my support money to purchase drugs and Johnny Cash bootlegs, or d) have been kidnapped and devoured by Maoist insurgents. I am more than pleased to assure you that none of these elements are entirely true (I purchased sleeping pills to counteract the lip-smacking and sleep mumbles of one Jason Hayes), though I did have my first run-in with the Maoists last week. But more on that later...

So I received my first e-buke this week from a dear friend who expressed his frustration that Jason and I didn't take advantage of the goat sacrifice as an opportunity to share the gospel. Old Jordan would've gotten defensive and angry, and launched an offensive about "how much I talk about Jesus, and jeez, I mean, I'm freaking here in Nepal, aren't I?" However, it appears Old Jordan is dead, officially. Instead, I felt the warm pangs of conviction that are quickly becoming daily occurences as commonplace as, oh, say, emitting carbon dioxide. Funny how quickly spiritual arrogance breaks down under the weight of isolation and the discipline of washing your boxers in a stream inbetween grazing cattle.

So Broken Jordan examined his heart and his ministry and found both to be lacking. Not non-existent, just not intentional; like, I should be cleaning up the kitchen and putting out that grease fire I started, but Greys Anatomy is just sooooo good this week unintentional. Jason and I talked it up a bit, having both received the same email, and came to the conclusion that while the work of our hands and the speech of our lips are full of grace and compassion, they're lacking the desperation of the need for the healing touch of the Holy Spirit in a dying land. Not that much different from being in America of course: for comfort's sake, I'd rather talk about politics or baseball or breast feeding, anything other than confronting somebody with frank talk about Jesus. Blegghh... I suck as a missionary.

So we're changing things up a little bit, getting more intensive with biblical disciplines and sharing the gospel instead of ancient Jordanic wisdom (which for the record, has proved to be pretty rife with errors anyway). Most of the kids from CWC are still away visiting what family they have for the remainder of the Desai holiday, so its been a blessing to have that much more time both to ourselves (boring though) and to spend with some of the older boys we're honing in on. These specifically being the ones you can pray for:

Nabin: My little Nepali playboy... Nabin is 17, and acts it to a point. He is highly intelligent and speaks English pretty fluently, to the extent that he's actually been tutoring me at night as I study Nepali. He's athletic, a purty swell dancer, and much like Augustine, he likes the ladies. His father is dead, and his mother is very sick, leaving him with little family save for extended relatives, and no male mentor in his life.

During the course of our studying together, we've gotten to engage in a lot of good personal conversation; Nabin has a lot of questions about women and dating, two subjects in which I am an utter failure, but he enjoys hearing about all of my mistakes (and Jason's near marriage). Regardless, I sprinkle our conversations with a heavy dosage of Paul and Peter. Nabin is very open to hearing about Christ, and agrees with a lot of what the bible has to say, but he's very hesitant to respond because his grandfather, who is just about the only blood relative he has left, has threatened to exile him from the family if he becomes a Christian. Exile is bad in Nepal, to the "You're dead to me!" extent. So pray for Nabin and his family, that God would will Nabin to himself and work through him to change the hearts of his grandfather and their village; that Nabin's fears would be abolished in the peace of the blood of Christ, and that the longings of his heart for purpose and family would be met in the word of truth, the gospel of our salvation.

Rajesh: Rajesh is 19, a pre-med student at one of the local colleges, and one of the pillars of leadership in the Welfare Centre. According to Rina, he'd been shy and reclusive during the time that he's lived at the Centre (11 years) until Jason and I arrived. Rajesh's parents abandoned him and his brother and sister when they were all very young, and the three were placed in separate orphanages in the Kathmandu valley shortly thereafter.

Rajesh was the first guy to open up to Jason and I, stopping by our room to talk and ask for guitar lessons, cracking jokes while cooking dinner with us upstairs, and mispronouncing the word "fish" (fissssss). Rajesh has some obvious wounds, but he quickly latched on us as men of peace and a source of friendship. He translates for us when we lead devotionals for the younger children, even though he has serious doubts about the validity of the Christian bible. In talking with Rajesh, I've learned that his biology and physics classes have led to him having some distorted and wary views on the interaction between science and the bible, and that a lot of things he's been taught have been biased and uneducated opinions passed off as fact (flies did not come from snakes). However, Rajesh hasa confidence in him that leads me to believe and hope that he will be my brother in Christ before I leave this country: he's so anxious to hear about God, and he actively seeks out and challenges my knowledge of the bible and its historical and scientific accuracy. I love a skeptic, as I used to be one myself, so pray that the resources and wisdom that God has granted me would lead to the joy of salvation in Rajesh's life. Pray also that as Rajesh considers medical schools, that God would provide a sponsor and a visa so that he can receive an education in America or England; Jason and I long to bring him home with us. And that he would learn to say fish correctly, as its driving me insane.

Birendra: I love this guy; looooooooooove him. Like the Mouth of Sauron, Birendra is often the physical embodiment of the words of Rupa and Rina at CWC: they speak, and Birendra gathers up the orphans and directs traffic to ensure that things happen. He's quiet, trustworthy, dependable (both his parents abandoned him, so he took up a job to support his incapacitated grandparents, often giving up his meals so they could eat), articulate, and compassionate. In other words, he's Eric Dacus, minus the Eric face and accompanying Eric noise which consonants and vowels fail to capture.

Nepali guys are very physically affectionate with each other, holding hands in public and occaissionally kissing each other on the cheek, and so it is a blessing to me that years of friendship with Ben Casey and interlocked toe love with Hirschy prepared me for Birendra. Birendra is always, always touching me somehow: falling asleep on me in a mini-bus, holding on to my thigh while we watch Mr. Bean, rubbing my shoulders while I eat dinner. This wouldn't be so odd if he wasn't 18, but I'm getting over my aversion to physical touch (I'm a hermit, remember?).

Birendra has a beautiful innocence to him, to the extent that I nearly convinced him that the book The Indian In the Cupboard was a true story the other night. He has a heart for children, and does more to look after the younger orphans than Jason and I are willing to do. He's a leader in CWC, a voice of comfort to the younger and lonely children, and a reminder of my need to embrace peace rather than wrath. Pray for CWC to find the money to send Birendra to college, possibly in America, for biblical perspective to aid Birendra's compassion, and for our conversations to be teeming with the presence of the Holy Spirit. I desperately want to enjoy heaven with this guy, and I want you to meet him there.

As for me? Spiritually, I'm doing well, as the free time has allowed me to invest a lot of myself into the Word. I've been working on memorizing the book of Ephesians and portions of Colossians, and Jason and I are about to embark on an inductive study of Romans. Which means this will probably be the last coherent blog you see for a while. I've been listening to a sermon series on church history by Tom Nelson and taking notes...fascinating to see where you and I that are brothers and sisters in Christ have come from, and I highly recommend you engage in such a study yourselves. And I started reading Dallas Willard's The Divine Conspiracy again, a book which I almost insist on every believer I know owning, which I believe Mike Harper would agree with me on since its the only thing he and I talked about for nearly a year.

Pray for my health: I've been sick nearly half the time I've spent here in Nepal thus far, and I'm really suffering under the strain of insomnia (I don't like hating Jason because he can sleep and I can't). For that matter, pray for the health of my parents. A good friend informed me of how he was attacked while in China last year through the physical health of his family, and I fear the same for myself; my mother has already been to the hospital once since I got here, and I have recurring nightmares about my father having another heart attack. I can't handle the strain of a sick parent, despite my levity with the subject of death in regards to my beloved iPod.

Pray for my heart: I've been really burdened with loneliness here in the last week, as well as grief over some dead relationships. I miss the Grove, I miss sandwiches, I miss Guster, and I miss Jake Newell. This is not an easy life here, and I don't mean the living in poverty and being covered in sniffling, giggling orphans 24 hours a day. I came to the realize this weekend that life at home is changing without me: people are getting married, moving away, buying waverunners, having twins, etc. And I'm here, isolated in a foreign country and reduced to words on your laptop monitor, the blatherings of a post-modern madman lost in the Nepali wilderness. I feel loved, immersed in prayer, and supported by every living being I know that's not in a coma, but I also feel so alone at the same time. Pray for me to get over myself and focus on having an eternal perspective, enjoy deep fellowship with God through the workings and the groanings of the Spirit who lives in me, and to stop listening to the Heartbreaker album so much (Call Me On Your Way Back Home is killing me right now).

I love you all, I miss my family, and I have a craving for salsa. They have this incredibly spicy condiment here made out of Nepali tomatoes, chillis, and gram marsala, and its close in texture, but really salty and so hot it chokes you. I can seriously only eat a teaspoon of it on my rotis (baked tortillas) at a time. Anyway, I've lovingly nicknamed this concoction "Nepalsa," just for future reference, but its a poor substitute for La Huercha. So take your community group or your wife or your roommates, or for that matter, an international UA student, out for chips, salsa, and a margarita (non-alcoholic for those of you who still have issues with my love for beer) on me. I'm good for it.

P.S. Jason still hasn't shaved. Gross...

A Death in Nepal

I wish I had better news for you, but it's been a hard, hard weekend: a death in our Nepali family. I'd like you to share in my grief, so here's a brief eulogy for the departed that I've written up...

Alas, alack, alas! My brother, you were so young, less than 2 years, barely a vapor in the course of human history, and yet... You changed my life. In my darkest of hours, and the moments of insane joy, you were there to share, and even encourage me in my laughter and my tears. We danced. We were a public spectacle together, the laughing stock of Garland Ave. and the Durbar Marg in Kathmandu. Driving across the country, pounding I-40, you were my solace and my ministry partner. You imparted words of wisdom to me in the form of John Piper and Ryan Adams ("I'm as calm as a fruit stand in New York, and maybe as strange"). You understood me better than any could ever aspire to, and you anticipated my moods and my wounds better than I was often capable of. Some would say that outwardly, you lacked any expression: cold-faced, sterile, white, small and unassuming; but they didn't get to know the interior of you like I. I will miss you terribly, and when your replacement arrives, I will try my best to cling to my memories of your touch and your digital soul. It is with a heavy heart, and a heavy FedEx package, that I deliver you back to your Father, Apple Inc. Godspeed iPod... Godspeed...

Cut the Lights! Guerilla Blogging!

I alluded to a power outage in my last post, and it dawned on me that not having electricity is a blessing in disguise of sorts. One of the painful lessons that I’m being taught even in the early weeks of my time here in Nepal is that many of the things that we as Americans consider to be necessities are luxuries to the least of God’s people. And I could go off on a tangent about American spending saving habits measured against our lack of heart and aid for the Third World, but that would go against the meaning behind this post. So I won’t. Lucky us.

Anyway, I find it funny that most of things I can’t even function without in America are mere afterthoughts here in Nepal. No electricity? No water? No television? No Internet? No worries. We eat by candlelight. We gather water from mountain streams and boil it in on our solar cooker, a gigantic dish with solar panels that will be subject of a future post. We go without bathing (some of us longer than necessary). We read books and climb hills and chase chickens through a neighbor’s rice field. We go to bed when the sun goes down and we wake before it rises the next morning. Or at least the orphans do.

All this to say, I’m taking a renewed pleasure in the simple portions of the living experience that is humanity. Sitting on the roof of the Centre, I’ve taken an interest in watching life unfold in the farmlands and communities below me (kind’ve feels like being Batman sometimes, except ; I contemplate who these families are as they plant their fields, fly the kites, swing from bamboo playgrounds, and play futball in the dirt roads. How does God see these people? Where are they from? What do they think, feel, believe? How are their marriages, their friendships? Are they joyful? Do they cry? How does this lifestyle reflect a picture of the Creator that I’ve never seen before?

They work so hard for so little. The family of five (Gramps included) spent a week harvesting and replanting their entire cabbage patch from sunrise to sunset each day, and they did it together. Laughing, eating tomatoes from the vine, chasing a rogue rooster through the carrots; it was beautiful. Nowhere are the stresses and slaveries of the American lifestyle that so many of the urban Nepalis yearn for. No cell phones or cable bills, iPods or ESPN.

Jason was listening to a John Piper sermon the other day in which Piper alluded to the fact that the things we pursue in our personal times are the portions of our lives that bring us freedom or enslavement. How very true… The world we strive for seduces us, sedates us, and in the end, it kills our hearts minute by minute, day by day. My hobbies are not inherently sinful, but my idolatrous lusts for entertainment and knowledge have taken up a cancerous partition of my heart. And now I see a community untouched by these things and I find…peace.

I’ve made it a point to begin pursuing the spiritual disciplines of prayer and meditation each day. Scripture memory, which was once a chore, is now a joy to pursue. Waking up on the other hand; still working on that. I read a lot in America, but rarely did I truly savor the experience. Here, without the distractions and the constant fear of being watched and found out, the whole process takes on new life. I read through Judges and felt the reluctance in Gideon’s heart and the encrusted dirt and dim torchlight of the earthen vessels he and his army bore into the camp of the Philistines. And I started reading the Lord of the Rings again.

It’s official. If you want to travel the mines of Moria and the golden heavens of Lothlorien, one needs do it by candlelight. No car alarms, laptops, or Take Two Video commercials seeping under door from the next room. Make some tea, light on the cream, heavy on the sugar and some ginger. Quiet rooms, quiet hands, quiet hearts. And a single, thick candle. That’s the way we do it in Nepal.

So with the power out (and with every head bow and every eye closed), I read all the way through the book in the course of two days. And I loved it, again, and again, and again. So I leave you with a fitting poem that one of the Shire’s best wrote on my heart during my travels through Middle-Earth.

Recited upon the beginning of a journey far more perilous than that faced by Jason and I, but no less life-altering, I thought the words of a hobbit matched our wonderment more than sufficiently. Big ups to Bilbo, Shire 4 Lyfe…

Upon the hearth the fire is red,
Beneath the roof there is a bed;
But not yet weary are our feet,
Still round the corner we may meet
A sudden tree or standing stone
That none have seen but we alone.
Tree and flower and leaf and grass,
Let them pass! Let them pass!
Hill and water under sky,
Pass them by! Pass them by!

Still round the corner there may wait
A new road or a secret gate,
And though we pass them by today,
Tomorrow we may come this way
And take the hidden paths that run
Towards the Moon or to the Sun.
Apple, thorn, and nut and sloe,
Let them go! Let them go!
Sand and stone and pool and dell,
Fare you well! Fare you well!

Home is behind, the world ahead,
And there are many paths to tread
Through shadows to the edge of night,
Until the stars are all alight.
Then world behind and home ahead,
We’ll wander back to home and bed.
Mist and twilight, cloud and shade,
Away shall fade! Away shall fade!
Fire and lamp, and meat and bread,
And then to bed! And then to bed!

Bilbo Baggins

The Post Where Some Orphans and I Kill a Goat

I know, the title of this post makes you want to cancel your hairdresser appointment and call your friends to tell them about "some crazy bear guy," but please, read the post below this one first. For the sake of the children.

Ok, right, so... It's been a week since I posted last. Not quite sure where to begin, so I'll just jump into what should have started as a weekend recap. Right. Here we go!!!!

Friday, September 29, 2006. We escape the orphanage!!!! This weekend marked the beginning of Desai, which is the Hindu version of Christmas, without the presents but with a heavy measure of animal sacrifices. Ah Desai, where the streets literally run red with the blood of ritual sacrifice, and people are warm and twice as nice!! I was a little disappointed that we didn't receive any Desai carolers ("Oh Silent Night (Of Praying that the Rat Goddess Doesn't Devour Our Souls")) or fruit cakes, but maybe next year...

Jason and I accompanied Hildi (whose name I have officially spelled 5 different ways since meeting her) to Thamell, which is more or less the tourist district of Kathmandu. Tons of western faces, Europeans in those three-quarters pants they're so fond of, and trekking guides. Oh, the trekking guides, as far as the eye can see. Four or five on every street corner, each promising to take you to the peak of Everest for only $500, hawking cheap hotel rates and "first-rate" climbing gear, often of course mislabeled (The Nerf Face, Mountawn HardDrive, Patagiardia).

We checked into a reasonable hostel (only $4 a night! shoestring budget does not exist here!) and headed down to the military fairgrounds to watch a ceremony officially blessing the beginning of Desai. Things were running slow, so we wandered the streets for a little bit; Jason was beseiged by holy men offering the tika (see post from last week re:Jason's tika concerns), Hildi was chased away from a ring of snake charmers by a man with a python around his neck, and I just dodged trekking guides. Since most trekking guides refuse to take no for an answer (or 15 nos for that matter), I made a game out of the whole process by seeing how outlandish of an excuse I could give for why I didn't need one. My favorites included "I'm sorry but the rest of my family was devoured by a group of cannibal trekking guides," and "How dare you! My father lost his arms and his spleen while trekking! Begone!" Jason did not approve, of course.

The ceremony was pretty interesting, and extremely hot. Since King Gyanendra was dethroned in April and no longer controls the Neapli armed forces, this marked the first Desai in nearly 300 years that the king did not preside over the ceremony. The royal marching band played the national anthemn, and then a commanding officer led the army in what turned out to be a literal wave of gunfire; rifles went off in a Baum Stadium wave around the length of the field in a U, followed by several volleys that came out of opposite sides of the parade grounds. The finale came with about 15 cannons being fired into the air while the band played again. Really cool stuff, even if we had a hard time seeing through the crowd and the fence (commoners are not allowed inside, and foreigners? ha!); very reminiscent of Independence Day celebrations from when I was but a little bear, save for the animal slaughter that would follow.

We shopped around for the rest of the afternoon at the various touristy places in Thamell. There's an official North Face dealer there (please don't hate me Dacus family), so we stocked up on gear. I got two pairs of really lightweight trekking pants, a sleeping bag, and a waist pack: less than $200!!! I love this country, its official. More snake charmers on the street below, and I managed to leave my camcorder in the North Face store "by accident." We ate dinner at a little cafe we'd discovered earlier in the day that was run by some Nepali guys, a Canadian girl, and a Vietnamese teenager. The Loss Time Cafe toyed with my heart by offering chicken spaghetti on its menu, but alas! They lied, they lied!!!! I settled for fried rice with mutton and a glass of wine. Can somebody please tell me what mutton is anyway?

I managed to get myself lost in the dark on the way back to the hostel when Jason and Hildi ducked into a shop, so for those of you who plan on visiting Southeast Asia in the near future, I give more subtle advice: DO NOT GET LOST IN THE DARK BY YOURSELF IN A FOREIGN COUNTRY. I wandered alone in the dark for a while, looking for familiar streets (which isn't easy in a country where none of them are labeled) and praying that I not get mugged and stabbed in a gutter in Nepal because it would be really expensive to mail my body back the staes for burial (and it would probably be covered in pee and foreign postage by the time it got home). I managed to flag down a rickshaw driver and get him to take me to the only landmark I could remember: Club Lava, a joint down the street from the hostel which I later learned is actually a gay bar. Beautiful. So I'm being carted around the dark alleys of Thamell by a ricksaw driver who thinks I'm gay, and really, REALLY wants to sell me weed. The driver kept asking me if I wanted some hash, so I tried the old Ray Ellen "the only thing I smoke is chicken on my George Foreman" joke; no laughter. I finally told the guy I was a music video director and I was filming at Club Lava that night, and no, I'm not gay. More offers for hash. Sweet.

Upon arriving back at the hostel, I found Jason and Hildi hanging out, divying up my few possessions and devising a story of how I ran away to join a band of gypsies. Turncoats... I had a coke with a Dutch tourist in the hostel's restaurant before we went out for the night. Being that it was Hildi's birthday (23, yesss!!!!), we took her out to a really cool bar (at her request Mom) that played Oasis for at least an hour. Hildi called two of her friends she'd met, a sociologist from Cameroon and Edam, from Ghana. Sociologist and Edam took us to a Nepali casino, where I played slot machines and watched drunken Indian tourists dance with each other to the live music by the buffet. Nepali and Indian men loooooove to dance with each other, and by dancing, I mean of the interpretive sort. As in acting out each and every lyric of each song with each other. Erin, Ashley, I'm thinking of you and Long Black Veil.

Ok, so I'm in a Nepali casino, random, awkward... We leave the casino, Jason obviously up waaaay past his bedtime, and go to some sort of trekking bar called the Tom and Jerry. Hildi is demanding cocktails, but I'm not even paying attention: the walls are covered in tshirts of expedition teams that have peaked Everest and come back to celebrate in the bar, and some of the shirts are 60 years old! Fascinating stuff, I think I even found a couple with Rob Hall's signarature on them (go read Into Thin Air, then you'll understand). It was like looking at artifacts in a climbing museum, except most museums don't serve alcohol or number dancing Ghana muslims amongst their patrons.

On Saturday, we went to the Durbar Square in Kathmandu (there are like 3 Durbar Squares in the Kathmandu Valley, each one being a temple/tourist district with really intricate architecture -- I'll post photos soon) in the hopes of seeing some of the sacrifices, but we found out they don't start until Sunday. Crap. So we took pictures of Hindus, I shot some videos of people offering tikas to the monkey god and another six-armed demon, and watched women feed the largest flock of pigeons I have ever seen. Holy men are littering the streets at this point, leagues and leagues of them offering tikas and flowers and blessings, and they all want Jason. We pack up and head back to CWC around noon, and the mini-bus ride back is miserable since I am now carrying a shopping back with North Face gear and a sleeping bag in it, as well as the second pack I bought. I am not a smart shopper.

Sunday morning, I'm suffering from a severe sinus infection I came down with over the weekend, bad enough that I'm having trouble seeing, but I have to get up: today is sacrifice day!!! Here's what you've been waiting for friends, the Goat!!!! It's Desai tradition apparently that Hindus sacrifice a goat on the Sunday of Desai, and while we are a Christian orphanage, several of the children are Hindi and desire to take part in the festivities. So Rina buys us a goat and leaves it locked up in the storage room downstairs all weekend. I saunter downstairs with my video camera, all confident because I'm a bloody American and I've seen the first three seasons of the Sopranos! I can handle goat death!!!

Wrong. Incorrecto. The opposite of courage. The goat is tied to the front gate, and he knows exactly what's going on. Nepali children are used to killing chickens for dinner, so the kids are unaware that anything extraordinary is happening here; they're here to see me and Jason in our moment of despair. And despair it is. Birendra and Rajesh (pronounced Rah-jeece), two of the older boys who happen to be my favorites, are saddled with the job of actually killing Mr. Goat. Rajesh, who doesn't eat red meat, is noticeably uncomfortable. Birendra sharpens his knife and plays up the whole butcher role for the camera, obviously trying to freak Jason out by talking about the best way to deliver a killing stroke, and warning me to "watch out for the spray." The boys wrestle the goat down and pin his head on a rock; the goat is madly bleating like itwas being forced to sit through a Murder She Wrote-a-thon with it's grandparents on a Friday night. Annnnd.....

I'll spare you the gore. It was gross. Really, really gross. The boys collect a full bucket of goat blood, the animal still kicking away. I try to pretend I'm not bothered by cutting away from the carnage to film Jason's reaction; face covered, walking in circles, telling me how much he hates me. I'm good for about 4 minutes before the goat smell hits me. I start to sway a little bit and switch the camera off, feeling the impending blackout. Things start getting hazy and purple, my head gets heavy, and I stagger away, almost puking, almost screaming, almost passing out. But I don't. I stumble into a flower bed and find a way to sit down that doesn't involve pitching face forward into a brick wall. I make Jason film me hiding from the goat under the shade of the building, just for posterity and journalistic integrity. I'm a coward. And goat meat sucks.

Jason heads back into the house to drink water and pray, but the boys convince me to come back and watch the skinning. The goat's already been beheaded, but Birendra is now reinflating its lungs by blowing in a straw down its esophagus. GROSS!!!!! They shave the goat with boiling water and some of the metallic cups we drink out of, and gut it. The younger boys talk me into eating some of the lesser, not so well known goat parts with them for good luck: the tail for agility and wisdom, a lung for compassion, and the penis for..."stamina." That's right. I flew to Nepal, bought a sleeping bag, worked in an orphanage, and ate a roasted goat penis. My grandchildren will be so proud of Pappy Bear some day...

So all in all, a pretty typical Nepali weekend. Some dal bhaat with goat meat (Jason hates it, I'm too sick by this point to care), snake charmers, Desai, and drug dealer/rickshaw pilots. Pretty standard fare I should say. Ah, but the twist... There's always a twist... That majestic goat phallus that I partook of? Improperly cooked, but of course. I spend all day Monday in bed with horrendus diarrhea, cursing goats and reproductive organs and Desai. And the power goes out. For three days. And because the power is out, our water pump stops working, so we have no water; or at least no cold water, because everything in our emergency tanks has to be run through the solar heater. Nobody tells me this of course, and just when my goat disease finishes its course, I decide to take a shower. A shower in boiling hot water. Dinner that night? Goat meat again. I go to bed early, reading The Fellowship of the Rings by candlelight.

And they all lived happily ever after, even the goat, who though dead, achieved a measure of suitable revenge in my intestines. I love Nepal!!!!!

The Weak (and time-constrained) Doxology Post

Another week, another mini-bus into Laghankel (the home of Durbar Square and my favorite internet cafe), and another belated post to this, the story of my life. For the last 5 days.

But first, a statement of faith!!!!

It's come to my attention that several of you who have read my blog have had some concerns about my consistency of faith, my cynicism, and whether or not I am in fact a Christian (oh I know you, I know you well...). May I please take this opportunity to qualm your fears and/or judgments of my character.

I am Christian, but not of the atypical American "go to church, eat my vitamins, and drive an SUV because God wants me to be a good steward of the earth's resources and consume them before He returns" archetype. I believe that man is naturally sinful and deserving of death in his judgment before God. I believe that Jesus Christ is the son of God, the fulfillment of the Law, and the only means of receiving salvation. I am a Calvinist, in the order of Hunter Hall ("the more people I share the gospel with, the more predestined people I meet"). I am not a sinner saved by grace; the Bible is clear that my identity is that of a priest, a saint, a child of God, a brother and friend of Christ, and the only reason that I can say these things is that God called me to Himself and by faith, I received Christ into my heart.

I am filled with the Holy Spirit, though I am not always abiding in Christ. I screw up, not necessarily everyday, but on a consistent and massive basis. I am foolish, I make rash decisions, I am brutish, hurtful, cruel, and deceitful. My flesh is evil, but it does not control me. I make terrible decisions to give into often enough in my various lusts for things other than God, but He continually calls me back to Himself. My joy has been made complete in Christ, and I treasure Him. I do not read the bible or pray nearly as often as I should, and I make many selfish decisions that have often hurt the people whom I love or have loved the most. But I have been purchased and made willing slave of the gospel of Jesus Christ. I love God, and because His law is written on my heart, I have the capacity within me to love others as He has loved me. I don't do it often enough or very well, but it's there. So...yeah.

I am a failure in many aspects of my life, in regard to what capitalism and popular culture and sexologists might have to say about me. I've spent my money and my time on stupid, selfish things. I don't live up to my word. I lie, I occasionally gamble, and I really like beer. But I am not subject to the judgment of the world, no matter how painful that judgment might be at times. I am emotional, but not led by such emotions (except when it comes to the Chicago Cubs). I hurt, I laugh, I smile, and grieve, but I do all these things in the knowledge that they are reactions, and they are beautiful because God has gifed me with them.

As for my pessimism, please recall that I've never left the United States before (though I once saw Canada over the border of Michigan), and thus, my ethno-centrism has been turned up to 11 since I came to Nepal. Culture shock, she is a painful, humorous bride, but she be mine. So please don't pick me apart as I pick apart what I see each day. It's all new to me (as I may very well be to you), and pooping in a hole in the floor is enough to turn any man's thoughts to criticisms. I'm overcoming my ignorance, but if I didn't give my thought process to you in full, I'd be a liar, wouldn't I. This is a journey; you don't get wiser about other people groups overnight unless you drink a pot of copy and memorize the encyclopedias your parents bought you when you were 12.

I'm a fool, but I please don't be confused; I love the Nepali people. They are beautiful, both physically and spiritually. Their customs are different than our own, their traffic system is insane, and their food gives me diarrhea, but they are the creation of the God I serve, and they are part of the mosaic of his character. They are graceful, intelligent, bold, funny, tender, tragic, and poor. They are crushed under the weight of poverty and a yearning to be western.

For those who think that all I am is a voice of humor broadcast throughout cyberspace, please be aware that I grieve for these people. For every homeless mother I can buy baby formula for, there are hundreds that I pass on the street and avoid sharing glances with. I passed a boy with gnarled legs and one hand that was pushing himself along in a gutter begging for change, and I gave him nothing. My heart is so hard and so broken here, I can't explain it. So many sick, wounded, hurting, dying, and separated from the God they need so badly, and I have neither the funds or the kindness within me to heal them. So share my life or delete my emails, love me or despise me, the choices are yours. I do not apologize for the voice God has given me, even if it is often more tongue-in-cheek than many are accustomed to (Paul once recommended some dissenters to permanently castrate themselves, and that still made into the New Testament).


In the meantime, please pray for us. The burden, much like the One Ring, is oh so heavy, and I often long to give it away to someone much stronger than myself. But God chooses the weak to shatter mountains and deliver the oppressed, and it is a certainty that He has chosen Jason and I to be voices in the wilderness here. The days are hard but fun, the nights are sleepless, and the food is spicy. Very spicy. I love you all, and I need you in my life. Have a Dr. Pepper with lime for me today!