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.