"And Shadowfax shall show her the meaning of haste"

Ok, so admittedly, the title has nothing to do with today's post, but I just finished reading Return of the King, and that's positively one of my favorite quotes from the entire series. Maybe a good song title for Sufjan as well, if he ever finishes with all 50 states and moves onto mythical realms. Regardless, since I have at last finished the series for the umpteenth time, I make you this vow: no more LOTR (ROTK? Twood?) references for at least a month. My apologies to Kent Hodskins.

I'm still trying to figure out the best means of posting pics with our incredibly slow Internet here, contemplating the joys of Flickr and trying unsuccessfully to download Picasa, which I hear gives you a quicker upload time here on Blogger. As it is, it takes nearly 20 minutes to upload one teeny photo of anything on here, so bear with me (not a bear pun again, I know...sorry). Anybody with any suggestions should email me at jordan.greenwald@gmail.com; your input is most appreciated.

Business side of things over and done with!

I had a great weekend, as is usually the case unless I am hunched, weepy-eyed and shuddering, over my beloved squattie potty. No such disaster as of recently however. Having at last gotten over my third Nepali cold, I took Saturday morning off from wading in my velvet orphaned sea to go on a prayer jaunt/stroll/trek through some of the local villages. Before leaving the States, Mike Compton (my Barnes and Noble Elijah) happened to give me a metallic prayer guide that has taken up permanent residency in my wallet; as I sauntered through unfamiliar territory, I spent some time praying over the spiritual darkness that I had been encountering in its various aspects.

Prayer walking in Godavari and Budhakel, the composite villages that comprise CWC’s locale here in the southern Kathmandu Valley, is no easy task, what with my being a rather auspicious white American. Having been in town for nearly two months now, one would presuppose that Jason and I would at last no longer be cultural oddities here, but such thinking is only pseudo-true. There are those in Godavari that view us as having become part of the local community, such as Shavir, a café owner who supplies me with Mountain Dew, and “Uncle Sam,” an older man who stops Jason at least once a week to recruit him to come aid in the building of a hospital. I must not look physically imposing enough, as Uncle Sam has never asked me much of anything other than, “Where is your tall friend?” As if I wanted to build a hospital anyway. Jerk…

However, most of the locals still view us with curiosity and a certain measure of contempt: interesting enough to mock and laugh at, but not so much that they will bother to pursue conversation beyond casual greetings, which are often followed by a joke at our expense and a roar of Nepali laughter. Factor in our being followed by throngs of schoolchildren who yell “Hello!” only to giggle and run away when you respond (I know Hirschy, you warned me, you warned me…), and getting some time alone becomes next to impossible. I’ve toyed with the idea of pepper spray, but then I’d be a mean stupid fat American. The Brett Harkey Game remains a good diversionary tactic, so Brett, I apologize in advance if you in fact decide to visit Nepal, and find that you already have a reputation of being an elusive scamp here. I promise not to mangle anybody in your name, scout dropout’s honor.

Anyway, I wandered about 5 miles away from home along a road running southwest parallel to the river until at last my patience and the pavement ran out. I crept off the pathway and through some brush, discovered a small stream where many of the Budhakel villagers go to bathe and do laundry. I took a seat on the bank and spent a good hour in some much-needed prayer, contemplating the nature of my ministry here and lamenting my failures in a broken relationship with someone I miss dearly (Alex Trebek, if you’re going to get that nosy). I thought I was alone, so I spent some time singing praise songs, the lyrics of old worship favorites from high school such as “Refuge” and “Use Me” seeping back into my heart, and finding that I really meant the lyrics. So I cried, a lot, and kept singing. And then noticed the four naked children who had been bathing around the bend of the stream the entire time I’d been sitting there. Awk-ward.

Public nudity is a perfect catalyst for the cessation of vocal worship (and this may very well be the funniest sentence I’ve ever taken the pleasure of writing, so cherish it). Thus, I wiped my face, pulled out my journal, and spent some more good time putting my thoughts for the morning down on paper. A woman and her two daughters approached while I was writing, settling further upstream to wash their clothes in a shallow pool, and I took the liberty of snapping a few photos while I prayed over them. This one just happened to be my favorite:


So why is this the first photo I’ve posted here in my blog? Because this tiny family was beautiful to me. Because they broke my heart. And because they are a perfect representation of the entirety of Nepal’s people to the American Church: small, poor, oppressed by government and political extremists, fragile, compassionate, graceful, fearful, and utterly lost. My being at that stream may have been the only opportunity this woman and her tiny precious daughters may ever have to hear the message of salvation set forth in the gospel, and I lacked the language skills to communicate how much the God of Jesus Christ loves them. It was the first time the sheer inadequacy of my ability to share the gospel via anything other than actions was really made clear to me, and I do the moment no justice in saying that I wept bitterly over my circumstances. So do be so kind as to pray for Jason and I in our feeble attempts at language acquisition, so that the children whom God chooses to change through our ministry here in Nepal would mature into bold, passionate believers who pursue evangelism without ceasing. Because I happen to suck at it.

Jason spent the afternoon being tutored in the ways of rice harvestry with some of the old boys, and in turn taught them how to throw knives in the style of Indiana Jones. Granted, I don’t really recall ever seeing Indy throw a knife at anybody, but c’mon…if anybody would, it’s him, right? The entire process is a tiring one, as the entire field has to be cut at the root via scythe, after which the individual grains of rice must be separated from the husk (is that what rice grows on?). Most farms in America have a big threshing machine to do the work for them, but not the Nepali: they throw all the rice stalks onto a tarp and then beat the living crap out of them with a big flat rock. Since the vast majority of Nepali don’t own vehicles, transportation of the rice back home is a back-breaker, in the literal sense, as well; the rice is filtered into 50 pound bags and then carried on the back with a contraption resembling a papoose (remember 3rd grade history class come Thanksgiving time?) that is held in place by a strap bound around the forehead. So imagine carrying 150 pounds of rice held in place by leather wrapped around your precious face, and say a little pray for the Nepali farmer next time to you enjoy Uncle Ben’s.

The boys finished the entire field in the span of two afternoons, so as you can imagine, they were completely physically spent by the end of the day. So what better way to celebrate than a feast? Jason and I had been rudimentarily planning a means of getting to hang out one-on-one with the older boys outside of the orphanage for a few weeks, so we decided to honor their hard work by taking them out to dinner and a Saturday night on the town. Rina agreed to take us into Kathmandu for the night, so we miraculously crammed 10 grown men into the beloved Gypsy, which seats four comfortably, and headed into Thammel.

Jason has graciously permitted me to tell this portion of the evening’s story for myself, and for that, I give him a massive praise of thanksgiving. Why? Very well, I shall tell you: I accidentally took our boys into a strip club. Not like a Hooters or anything, but a freaking strip club. Hear me out in my entirety before canceling your subscription to my blog. Please?

Rina took us to King’s Road, a strip of high-priced (for Nepal) shops and international restaurants aptly named for its proximity to the royal palace. Driving down the street, I saw a sign for “Lips Dancing Restaurant and Bar,” and knowing that a lot of the older guys really like dancing, I assumed that it was a restaurant with a dance floor. Being an Arkansan, whenever I see a billboard with a big set of lips on it, I think of country-western radio stations that sport “Trisha Yearwood Power Hours”; this is not the case in Nepal. Jason and I climbed the stairs up to the third story of the building as signs directed us, but a dark entranceway with a strobe effect coming from deeper inside threw us off; surely this could be it… The sign said it was a restaurant…

There were three Nepali women dressed nicely at the door beckoning us to come in, and when it was obvious that Jason and I were a little perturbed by the look of the exterior of the place, they goaded the guys to come in and take a seat. The guys had no qualms about going inside, so I figured things were safe and I followed them in. Whereupon I saw a woman in a bikini dancing next to a pole on a stage raised up above darkened tables covered in cloth napkins and fancy menus. Gurgle. Hard swallow. Burning of bile from a forthcoming vurp in the back of my throat. I have made a horrible, terrible, no-good, very bad mistake.

The guys all ran eagerly to a table in the front of a restaurant, thinking that I had revealed my true lecherous self. I made an effort to shield my eyes, running up front and grabbing everybody by their respective collars and doing my best to punt them back in the direction of the front door. The manager of the “dance restaurant” followed me out, yelling at me in broken Nepali and English, apparently upset that I am easily offended by half naked women who do not answer to Mrs. Jordan Greenwald. I fail to respond, as I am too busy following the boys and Jason, who is laughing hysterically at my ignorance, with my face in my hands, burning the neon red of a Budweiser sign.

We roam the block looking for a better place for another ten minutes, and I refuse to take part in the decision-making process due to my apparent tendency for choosing dining establishments of ill repute. And Nabin makes certain to make jokes at my expense for the rest of the evening, all the while planting subtle seeds that I should take him back to Lips in the near future. I officially hate Nabin at this point. But seriously, what kind of country allows a gentleman’s club to be built within a 30 second walk of the front gates of its royal palace?!?!

The night gets better, don’t worry. Jason and Umesh (CWC’s resident poet and cheater at cards) find a really sweet restaurant built around a massive tree that rises up out of the center of the building, providing a towering canopy and partial balcony. Half of the boys order pizza for the first time, and I end up giving impromptu lessons on the dos and don’ts of how to eat that first slice (“Do not dip your pizza in your glass of water like Rajesh here”). I settle for the same order as Sisan and Sushil: a half chicken smothered in Nepali barbecue sauce with steamed vegetables, homemade bread, and the obligatory side of fried rice. Birendra goes for the steak sizzler, as he has never tasted beef before; how this place sells such a meal in a country where eating a cow is punishable by a 20-year prison sentence, I do not know. We order a round of lassis, which are milkshakes made with curd, and the ever popular momos, dumplings filled with spices and meat or vegetables. For dessert, a few boys have milkshakes, while the majority order ice cream for the first time; Jason and I split a German cake resembling tiramisu and some sort of “pyramid cake,” both amazingly satisfying.

Umesh entertains us for the night with jokes, which he refuses to translate into English for the benefit of myself and the Jason. We fake our best rich American laughs, purposefully timing them before the jokes have reached their conclusion so we look like idiots, and before long, the entire table is in tears. This is easily the biggest meal I have had in nearly two months, and Sushil and I take the opportunity to puff our bellies out and impersonate pregnant sumo wrestlers. Dinesh spends the rest of the night asking me how my “chicken baby” is doing, and this apparently becomes the funniest thing CWC has ever heard, since I am still being pestered about it a week later. When the bill comes, Jason pulls the old “I don’t have my wallet, so I guess the meal is on Rajesh” gag, but forgets that this is the first time most of these guys have been taken out to a restaurant; Rajesh’s eyes get huge, and he starts sweating, innocently believing that he has just been made into an indentured servant by the empty plate of fried fish sitting in front of him.

Total cost for ten guys to eat a full course dinner, complete with appetizers and dessert, at one of Nepal’s finest restaurants? Fifty bucks. Unbelievable. So if you’re curious where your support money is going, eight orphaned teenagers got to go out and dine like kings (literally, I saw King Gyanendra’s photo and endorsement of the place on the wall), honored for their hard work and leadership. Money well spent, and easily the most enjoyable dinner I have been given the honor of hosting in a long time. The boys spent the entire car ride home thanking us profusely, save for the silent moments where we tried unsuccessfully to frighten a sleeping Birendra (think of that part in Out Cold when they put the drunk guy in the car and spin it around).

Life this week has returned to normalcy, as I can best place it. All of the children have returned from the holiday break at last, and school has officially reconvened; this of course means that Jason and I have to relearn faces and names, and I am besieged by an army of young boys who all want to wrestle with me and give me the infamous “Nepali Lock” (a swift crunch of the male reproductive organ…imagine my joy). With the kids being back in school, we get a lot more free time during the day that was formerly spent entertaining bored orphans. As a result, I’ve managed to read all the way through the copy of Superfudge I found in the CWC library, and halfway through Catch-22, which is turning out to be the funniest book I’ve never read. I’m listening to a lot of Wilco, a lot of Caedmon’s Call, and a smidgen of Red House Painters. I try to invest my free time in language studies and writing letters, but mostly just end up missing Fayetteville fall, family, and friends.

And this is where I leave you. Do be so kind as to email me and tell me about your Halloween costumes and/or parties; Jason and I dressed as American aid workers, but I don’t think anybody noticed. Pray for our hearts and for winter, which is quickly descending upon us. Pray for swift acquisition of the Nepali language, and that the younger boys would stop falsely teaching me cuss words as the names of plants and animals. Pray for the salvation of our 55 orphans, and for clarity of message as Jason and I begin to teach them a series on the creation of the earth in our evening devotions.

That’s it, the end. Stay classy America. I’m the bear?