We are in an age where we are bombarded with cell phones, calls, SMS, iPods, billboards, movies, TV, friends – distractions. Everything is posted and you get instantaneous responses and satisfaction. I am well involved in the craze and very much enjoy it. The first thing that I do when I get home from a night out is to connect on Facebook. I blog, I follow tweets, I dig, stumble, I am linked in. It is all great, but it is hard to detach. It is hard to pull yourself away from the updates and the notifications.
I think that is why my time spent in the rural village a Jarang a 5 hour jeep ride/hike from the nearest town Gorka was so impactful and the memories, smiles, sweat, hugs, and tears will stay with me for a long time to come.
It is impossible to summarize my time there, and journaling the details of each day won’t do it justice, so I am choosing to focus on the part that I loved the most; the simplicity of the village life. The word of choice is a general overstatement, but so not confuse it with easy or boring because neither of these word come nearly close to describing the feel.
I lived with two other Volunteers, Ramos (Ryan Larkin) and Suryia (Nepali site supervisor) and with my Aamaa (mom) and Buwaa (dad). Our house was two levels. One room that served as the living room/kitchen, plain, red, simple, smooth. We took our shoes off on the covered porch before entering the house. Inside there was wooden ladder/staircase that lead to the bedrooms. The first big one was for our host parents. Then there was another open porch above the lower one where our beds were. Low ceilings where I bumped my head each night, exposed rusty nails and rafters full of spiders. I quickly unrolled my sleeping bad on my wood planked straw mattress and set up my mosquito net more for protection from the bigger guys.
After a long day at the site hauling rocks, stone, and twisting wires for rebar we would retreat through the cornfield maze down the steep slope that led to our compound of three houses. We would sit outside until our Aamaa brought us chia (tea) and an unknown snack. The village kids who were also out of school would show up at their favorite volunteers’ house. Our favorites would sit with us smiling and watching us in amusement. They would speak basic English and encourage our Nepali language trials as the sun went slowly down.
When mustered enough energy to make the move I would run upstairs change out of my work pants and sports bra and put on my hot pink cotton moo-moo that I was required to wear while I showed. I would grab my soap and headlamp, drape my towel over my shoulders and being scared of the dark, I would wait for another volunteer to head on the path down to the spicket. Since it had been raining and there was spare water we were allowed to shower daily. We used the same water tap that the locals filled their cooking and drinking basins with. We ducked and crouched as the ice cold water ran over our bodies rinsing off the grime that we would be replacing the next day. When I finished, I would look down only to see my “clean body” covered in the bubblegum streaks and stains of my vegetable dye gown.
We ate dinner every night sitting cross-legged on straw mats placed on the floor facing our Aamaa with the wood-burnt fire to our right. As soon as we got situated we would remove our headlamps and allow our eyes to adjust. The light from the flames flickered just bright enough to reflect the red tint of the mud walls and our glowing contented smiles. The smoke that provided for us burned and stung my eyes and left my clothes drifting with the familiar sent of NH wilderness in the summers.
My Aamaa chatted away to us in Nepali smiling and not caring that we did not understand. We screamed Pugio! Enough! And Alikieti! Just a little! While we held our plates guarded close to our bodies. It did not matter, we were strong builders, there was extra food, and it is a grave taboo to waste what they have been able to provide. Two and a half heaping servings of Dahl Bhaat (Rice and Lentils) and a Vegetable Curry later Ryan was crying from the spice and I was no longer to hold the hunched position that I started in. We ate this twice a day. It was basic, it was simple, it was delicious.
After dinner Ryan, Suryia and I would run to open porch of our neighbor’s house though the cornfields. We would hang out for an hour or so relaxing in the cool air. People around me would discuss the day, the plan for tomorrow, and I would enjoying quiet company as I desperately tried to capture the emotions and calm that I was experiencing.
Each night Aamaa would wait until we could not fit another kernal of rice in our bodies before serving herself. She would eat alone then clean, then feeling abandoned would come to tell us it was time to close up for the night. We would take turns using the communal squat toilet, stand on the edge of the front yard brushing our teeth and spitting onto the ground. For whatever reason knowing that the wad of toothpaste would seep into the ground and be a dry remberance in the morning made me feel more connected to the land.
Each night around 9:30 I would scramble through the dark, un-tuck my net, crawl into bed and pass out immediately. My back loved the hard mat and I slept soundly until 4:30 am when the sun would start to rise over the Himalayas and the roosters would start to crow. My Aamaa would wake up immediately and start the rounds of feeding the goats and preparing the fire. We would wake around 6:00, dress, and head to the porch for our morning tea. Aamaa would be full of smiles handing me the scalding metal cup that I would graciously take cautiously with hands on the rim. We would again sit in silence as we awoke inside and prepared ourselves for the work ahead. With a trip to the squat, more toothpaste in the dirt we hugged Aamaa and like dutiful ants we followed each other through the maze to the build site.
From there the sun would rise, the enchanting snow capped mountains that would captivate our mornings would disappear as the clouds rolled in from the distance. The heat would rise and our exhaustion grew. We were physically tired but mentally awakened. We took refuge in the gracious servitude of the Aamaas and the smiles and thoughtfulness of the men and children.
I will always be grateful for dancing with the village ladies to the drum-beat music, chatting with the school children as the sun sets, watching as the young boys hopped on one foot knocking into each other over for amusement, knowing that they sacrificed one of their goats so we could feast. These are the simple things that we enjoy, appreciate, and so often overlook when we are distracted, and I think that for the rest of my life when I look at my photos, read my journal entries I am going to be able to put myself right back into that place of simple pleasure and smile knowing that the village kids who found their way into my heart in such a short amount of time are safe in thier new school.
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