Cease Fire

The Cup runneth over
Kathmandu, Nepal

It's Saturday night, and everyone is mesmerized by the World Cup (today it's UK vs Paraguay, zzzz). It works out well for me, because it means the bar band across the street isn't playing. Techno may have taken over the rest of the world, but Kathmandu is still a rock 'n' roll town. From about 7.30 pm to 10.30 or 11, I am treated to high-volume cover serenades like "La Bamba," "Cocaine," "Roadhouse Blues" (thank God they don't do Eminem covers, and do NOT tell them I said that; it might give them ideas for branching out). It's so loud, I really would have no reason to go to the bar at all, even if I wanted to hear the music. In fact, I could have a dance party in my room, if it were big enough.

Instead, the Full Moon Bar, like everyone else in town with a screen of any kind, is showing the World Cup, so all I hear are the occasional outbursts of cheering. The BBC, my usual source of a sane, English-speaking voice, spent no less than an hour (okay, it seemed like an hour) on World Cup Coverage this morning. Maybe all the Yanks in town can have an alternative get-together while this is going on. I am sitting in the Cafe New Orleans courtyard surrounded by Europeans. Not an American in sight - I can tell by the hushed, reverential silence.... How long does this World Cup stuff go on, anyway? I want to know how many quiet evenings I can look forward to. It's like having my own little cease-fire!

As time goes by... at the Hard Yak Cafe
Here at the Cafe New Orleans, I can type on free wireless while enjoying my tea and brown rice. I had planned to update all the Blogs with photos, but they just are not uploading regularly. An afternoon here has the feeling of Sam's Bar in Casablanca, an international outpost of outcasts, expats and misfits, riding out the storm of insanity elsewhere. It's got the tropical trees, birds chirping, strains of jazz and sitar music, tea and 4pm cocktails, and low tables with hippy seat cushions. Prayer flags waft in the wind. All that's missing is Sam's mojo piano, but we have CDs of Dixieland jazz instead.

A Message from Lama
At my guesthouse in Rishikesh, all the waiters, cooks and "house boys" were Nepali. I got to know them and bits of their stories. Some, like Ganesh, were trapped into arranged marriages at very early ages (in his case, 21; his bride was 17) so never had a chance to get higher education; they had to support kids almost right away. Others, like Deepak, Ramchandra and Rajkumar, are fleeing almost certain induction into the Maoists' army. Even if they are in no immediate danger, the insurgency has drastically reduced employment chances at home, so they join the growing community of some 2 million Nepalis who have migrated south to the neighboring superpower, hoping for a break. All come from small rural villages. Those who can send money back home to their families, though I learned that in many cases, they were working for little more than food, tips, and a place to sleep.

"Which is your village?" is a guaranteed opener in the Nepali diaspora. If you have heard of their village (or district), they are very happy and beam with pride. If you have actually been to their village, even just riding through on the bus, you are their instant adopted sister.

In the case of Rajkumar Lama, I became something of a hero. Not only had I heard of NamoBuddha, but I had been there; and not only had I been to NamoBuddha, I actually had photos of it - on my laptop. With the stroke of a few keys I was able to pull up images of his home town on my magic machine.

"I know him!" he exclaimed, pointing to a photo of people sitting in the community square. The people in the photo were processing the rice harvest, seated around the Buddhist stupa that is the centrepiece of so many villages. After a while I wondered whether Rajkumar actually knew everyone he saw in the photos, or whether he was just so homesick, everyone he saw began to look familiar.

As someone who was heading for the Promised Land in just a few days, it was obviously my duty to offer to deliver goods and messages. Rajkumar asked me to deliver a message to his friend working at a restaurant in Kathmandu.

"You go to Nepali Chulo," he said. "You ask for Hari Lama." Surnames are giveaways here; "Lama" indicates that they both belong to the Buddhist Tamang ethnic group, prominent in East Nepal. (The Buddha Boy was Tamang.)

"What should I tell him?"

"Just tell him Rajkumar Lama." He wrote his cell number into my book. I offered him a blank page to write a Nepali message, but he shook his head "no."


Blank University
Today I walked up to the restaurant, Nepali Chulo. It's an enormous "Nepali Theme" place, built in the style of a traditional Newari house, with a "traditional and ethnic folk music and dancing" floor show; the kind of place popular with large busloads of European tour groups. The owner had told me previously that they'd lost lakhs (hundreds of thousands) of rupees keeping this high-overhead place open during the lean spring season, when there had been riots and demonstrations daily. Now they are tearing up that section of Kantipath, seemingly to widen the road. Clouds of construction dust blew into my face as I walked up the busy four-lane street.

All of His Majesty's favourite conundrum signs are gone. "All organs of the State must remain alert...." which made such nice souvenir photos just a few weeks ago, are all history! Every sign for goverment offices has been changed from, for example, "HM Govt. of Nepal Tax Excise Office" to "Nepal Govt. Tax Excise Office." Even the signs for Tribhuvan University, named for a king of long ago, have had the "Tribhuvan" marked out so they just say "University." I wonder what they will rename the college. I suppose they will change the name of Tribhuvan International Airport as well. ("Blank International Airport.") It seems indicative of the state of the nation; they know they've firmly rejected the past; they're just not sure what's next.

Hari Lama stood a full head shorter than me, with the onyx almond eyes, razor-sharp cheekbones and elfin demeanor of so many eastern Nepalis. Despite the relative heat, he wore full-length traditional kurta-salwar, vest and black topi. I have always wondered how the men can move about comfortably in those stovepipe-tight pants, but they look like a million bucks.

In exchange for delivering this enigmatic message from afar, Hari offered me a cup of tea in the deserted dining room. I realized that, as a Tamang, Hari would be a perfect translator for my planned visit to Aama, the Tamang Shaman. I've really got to get rid of these stomach cramps, and I've tried everything else, including the expensive foreigners' clinic. Why not try a traditional Buddhist Shaman?

Glancing around the empty hall, I realized just how bad business must have been lately. I wish I could offer Hari something besides the message. If things don't pick up, he will have no trouble getting an afternoon off to accompany me to Aama the Shaman.

Not a photo opportunity

Drawing a blank
Kathmandu, Nepal

Okay, I have spent the past 2 hours on line trying to upload photos to Blogger and Trekshare. Nothing is uploading. I don't know if it's the limitations of the local wireless system here at my friend's cafe, or...what, but sorry, I just am not able to upload the photos this way. Maybe some other way...that means I have to find a cyber-cafe with a working disk drive (amazingly difficult - there's usually one in every shoppe, and you have to wait for it) and upload from a CD. I have cool photos of the Maoist rally and my cross-country bus ride.

Oh great, NOW it uploads. Okay, guess I have to redo this whole entry...

The MahaMatrix

Bharat Matrixa
Kathmandu, Nepal

This week's Viewer Mail:
Long-time correspondent Robert, in Northern California, writes:

Dear Siren:
I still do not understand. I have been reading your articles for three years. All of your articles since reaching Nepal (also on your previous visit to Nepal, and when in Sri Lanka) sound like a normal, sane, clear-headed person. But for the last few months (since your illness in Madras), your writing has been like someone who cannot concentrate... or worse! What's happening?

Dear Robert:
I have been a student of Indian history and culture for more than ten years. Having lived in India for over three years now, people ask me what I have learned about India. And, more importantly, people even ask why, in my writing of this blog, I suddenly seem to be a different person.

This is what I say:
At the risk of getting really mystical, there is a Hindu concept called Leela or Maya. Leela means something like "cosmic play," Maya is "illusion" and Mahamaya is "great illusion" ("the creative, illusion-making power of God"). These forces appear repeatedly in Hindu mythology and scripture. Only the gods and powerful mystics have the ability to see beyond the Leela. Like The Matrix, everyone else is caught up in the "program."

India is under a very, very heavy Leela. They have to be. Otherwise, everyone would go crazy and it would all fall apart. Actually it is slowly falling apart and they are all already crazy, but because of the Leela & Mahamaya (the Matrix), no one realizes it.

I have noticed that other people write about this as well... about how in India, you have to do a lot of "play acting" and pretending. It's okay as long as you know it's pretending. The danger is that if you play a part long enough, it becomes real.

After spending too long in India, I lose my ability to see beyond the Mahamaya Matrix. I start to get caught up in it. You can see the difference when Indians come to the US. They are like normal people there. They say things that make sense. They actually answer questions. You can have straightforward conversations with Indians when they live in the US. Sometimes, they even acknowledge that problems exist. When they have been abroad long enough, they eventually will even acknowledge that Indian problems exist, in India!

Get them back over here, and BAM! - Mahamaya Matrix strikes again! Other foreigners have described this (this effect on themselves, as well as on Indian acquaintances).

You can also see it with Indian friends here in India - the difference hanging around me and other foreigners, then the way they behave when other Indians come into the room. Amazing! It's just like the movie - they are terrified of being discovered as a traitor to The MahaMatrix. You saw the movie, you know what happens when you are found out!

Anyway, I blame India. Or more accurately, Mahamaya. But - I really don't know what you're talking about, since, there is no problem... there are no problems... are there? Everything is fiiiiinnnnnnnnne...... just take the Blue Pill.....

How now, Red Mao?

Show of Shirts
Kathmandu, Nepal

No, damnit...I didn't get it together to post the Maoist Rally photos from yesterday. Not yet. But I have a good reason (some kind of food poisoning). Tomorrow, I promise!

It was a day of firsts. The first show of public strength from the previously underground Maoist guerillas (and not a gun in sight). The first time the general public had ever trod upon the previously forbidden Tundikhel Parade Ground (there were so many people they broke through the fencing and spilled onto the grounds previously reserved for royalty and military).

AND, last and certainly least, it was my first time throwing up in the lobby of a five-star hotel (the Annapurna on Durbar Marg)! Well, I did manage to make it to the toilet (cupping my hand over my mouth) before spewing, but I think their marble floors got a splash of my bile.

MaoStock 2006
The Maoists' "Vishal JanSabha" (big people's meeting) was a remarkably mellow event (Mao-stock?). 200,000 people and no violence, unless you count the broken tree. A few dozen stupid young men climbed up into the branches of a Bodhi tree in order to get a better view, and finally the enormous branches gave way with a sickening crack, just a dozen feet from where I stood. (No one was hurt, except of course, the beautiful old tree which was literally split in half.)

Even the blue-camoed Nepali Police (formerly the Royal Guard) seemed very chilled out, lolling on the medians, all but snoozing on their riot shields. The weather was equally cooperative, providing a soothing cloud cover and a sprinkle of rain.

Red-shirted folks of all ages, many waving the hammer and sickle Red flag (remember that? wow, it's been a while. Almost makes you nostalgic) and other red-and-white banners of affiliated Communist groups, marched through the streets surrounding Tundikhel Parade Ground. In their varied facial features and ethnic dress, one could see the many different regions of Nepal. They were very orderly, very disciplined and if they were being co-erced to participate, did shout slogans very convincingly.

"We will burn the Crown and run the country,"

"Take the King from the Palace, and put him in a pig-sty"

and

"Long Live the Nepali Maoists Party; Death to bad king and bad government."

Hari, Niraula, Dinesh and other Nepali friends said that while the red-shirted brigades were volunteers and party members, most of the civilians came out of curiosity more than dedicated support. "Till now, the Maoists have been 'bhumi ghat,'" said Hari. "You know bhumi-ghat?"

Bhumi means the earth; a ghat is a set of steps leading downwards, usually to a riverside.

"Underground!" I said. Hari nodded. "So the people are wondering, who are these Maoists we hear about?"

Others who had been piled onto the buses from far-flung rural areas, were probably all too familiar with the People's Army. Hari said "Today, all bus fares to Kathmandu are free. The bus companies are supporting them." I wondered if their support was entirely voluntary. How could the peasants - because that's what they are, the working poor of rural Nepal - afford to spend even 2 days in the big city? The average country person cannot afford to take even one day off of work; many farmers live outside the cash economy. Dinesh said there were relief centres set up all over town and outlying areas, shelters where they would spend the night and be fed before returning to their villages. Again, I wondered where this money was coming from, as the Maoists are known to extort "donations" from foreign trekkers and local businesses - perhaps local food suppliers had also "donated," willingly or otherwise, the raw materials and shelter to feed the followers.

In other words, this was not a spontaneous people's uprising of the lumpen proletariat, but a carefully stage-managed and organized mass photo-op. And a very cohesive one. Five thousand red-shirted volunteers directed traffic, manned first aid stations and distributed pure drinking water for the participants and spectators.

People were piled onto every conceivable surface including the roofs of nearby buildings, fence railings, the pedestrian "flyover" bridges, vans, flatbed carriers and tall water tanker trucks (where Hari and I perched to get a better view). Though the enclosed parade grounds and amphitheatre were packed to the gills, I could see that many of the old political statues had been draped in red flags; a bronze equestrian national hero was carrying the Hammer and Sickle banner.

For some, especially the teenagers, it seemed to be just a big national shindig. Besides, why not come to the rally - most businesses were closed for the day and public transport wasn't running, anyway!

Lost in Translation
At 1.30 pm, Hari had to go to work, actually his second job. He now moonlights in order to bring in more money for his wife (a schoolteacher) and two-year-old son. So I lost my translator and had to make my way through man-on-the-street interviews looking for those who "looked like" they spoke English (you can actually do this with a fair degree of accuracy - they tend to be younger, wearing mod clothes with a college style).

The men and women on the street I spoke to expressed cautious optimism about the Maoists. They still seem a bit giddy from the newfound freedom and tumultuous events of the past 2 months. When asked "do you support the Maoists?" most said things like social worker Niraula: "Not 100 percent...maybe 80 per cent. But we want change, we want democracy. We want to see what they have to offer." No one expressed an interest in return to monarchy, and the Seven Party Alliance doesn't seem to have much credibility. At best, they are seen as the lesser of evils. The SPA (some of whom were known to be corrupt career politicians when previously in power) have a long way to go before they could pull off an impressive demo like this one. From what I have read, they did have a demo a few weeks ago and the turnout was about half this size.

The general public just seem to be willing to give anything a try - anything new and different. Willingness, or a sense of fatalism inevitability? No one seemed to question the coming ascendancy of the Maoists. Whether this was truly acceptance or resignation is another question.

Over and over, I was told by onlookers, "We want peace. We want only peace."

It didn't bode well, though, that few wanted to be named and many were afraid of having their photos taken. Several party members asked Hari if I (conspicuous white lady with a camera) was a human rights worker. He answered, "No, she is just a guest at our hotel who is curious." True enough, but I had to wonder what they had to fear from even a hypothetical human rights worker?

The electric anticipation gave way to a bit of disappointment as it became evident that the Main Mao Man, Prachanda, Soul Brother #1, was not going to appear in person. Nor was Dr Baburam Bhattarai, Soul Brother #2. We did get an appearance and speech by Krishna Bahadur Mahara, another key party member, as well as numerous cultural performances by various groups from the many regions of Nepal. Most surprising to me was the participation of Tibetan folk dancers and lamas with long-horns and yellow ritual hats. You would think the Tibetans, of all people, would intensely distrust the Communists!

Not if or when, but how now
Long story short: The Maoists may not have the hearts and minds of the Nepali public as completely as they claim, but they are a very real force, are very organized and are ready - they claim - to enter mainstream politics and merge their People's army with that of the Nepali government. It is no longer a question of if or when, but how and to what extent. It was around these questions that the day's speeches revolved.

Since I had no translator and was unable to understand the speeches in Nepali, here is an excellent account of the day and commentary on the speeches by a Kathmandu native, fellow blogger Zade 16.

It seems to be a given, to laypersons I spoke with, that the Maoists will dominate the new Parliament. The Maoists are now calling for the dissolution of the current one - the Parliament reinstated by the King last month - as, they claim, any body appointed by the King is no longer valid.

The collective energy began to dwindle around 4pm. Some of the less committed spectators began to wander away down side streets, to enjoy the rest of their enforced holiday. I spotted a trim young man with glasses, camera and United We Blog t-shirt. It turned out to be Dinesh Wagle of United We Blog Nepal. We had been emailing for the past 5 months and I was hoping to catch up with him on this visit. Dinesh was photographing his friend James, an independent American journalist who's lived in Nepal for 30 years.

James, an independent American writer who's lived in Nepal for 30 years, was trying to pull down a Prachanda poster as a souvenir.

"I really want the red t-shirt," I said.

"Nope, they won't let go of the t-shirt OR the headband - I already tried!" James shook his head. American minds think alike.

Gut Feelings
At that moment, I had a biological attack, and had to run for it. Some kind of mystery bug had me puking up all the water and soda I had ingested during the hot day's activities. I spent today recuperating and hope to get the photos posted by tomorrow.

Red Rain

A busted bus and lots of dust
Kathmandu, Nepal
via Haldwani, Banbassa, Mahendranagar, Kolapuri, Butwal, Manikamana, Mugling, Dadhing & Narayanghat


Oh.
My.
God.

Note to self: do NOT, repeat not, take a bus ride across the Terai (flat lowland plains of Nepal) in pre-monsoon season. Unless you want to melt into your seat! I really thought there would be nothing left of me but a puddle on the grimy bus floor and at every stop I had to soak my chunni (scarf) in cold water and wrap it around my head like a coolie, to prevent my brain from exploding. I must have looked like a total dork (white lady with a dripping towel wrapped turban-style on her head, dripping down her shirt and face) but I so did not care. I was sweating so profusely I finally had to remove my glasses (they wouldn't stay on my face) so I could only marginally enjoy the wonderful scenery that begins at Narayanghat - green jagged hills and deep river gorges, hills covered with terraced rice paddies like giant emerald steps.

Well, Border Crossing #3 was an experiment. I'll never have to do it again. Next time I will go via the more common Bhairava/Senauli border crossing. Never in my life have I been so glad to see rain as I was in, oh what was the name of that little village where we stopped to fix the flat tire? As all the other bus passengers were shutting their windows against the rain I was cheering for joy and sticking my head out the window.

Riding across the Terai did give me a chance to see (even without my glasses) some of the changes in the emerging democracy. A half hour after departing the Immigration post (just a little concrete cinder block box that says "Tourist Information" - you would never know it was a govt. office - I realized something had been missing from the walls inside - the mandatory portraits of King Gyanendra and Queen Komal. These 2 are (or were) everywhere in Nepal, from the smallest juice shop to the biggest 5 star hotel, peering down at you like overweening parents. No more.

At the whistle-stop village where we paused to repair the busted tyre I wandered over to the snack stand, where everything is still made on beautful wood-fired clay ovens. There were Maoist posters with the face of leader Prachanda, advertising the big "Jana Sabha" (meeting of the people) tomorrow in Kathmandu. I knew what the posters said but played dumb and asked the hotel owner. "Maoist," he said. " The Maoists have put this poster." It was obvious from his tone that he would never have put it up himself, and was only keeping it out of fear. I began to see this poster everywhere.

At Narayanghat, clean-cut, energetic young men in red t-shirts (with the same Prachanda portrait) and carrying megaphones clambered aboard the bus and spoke authoritatively to the driver. Soon half a dozen civilian young men got on board, without, I noticed, paying any fare.
This happened at every stop between Narayanghat and Kathmandu, and I soon realized they were sending delegates and followers to tomorrow's meeting in Kathmandu (commandeering the bus free of charge). At the dinner stop, I saw buses packed with dozens of men riding on the rooftops, red flags waving from the bus's prow.

Everyone in town seems to be expecting something momentous from this meeting today in Tundikhel. My favourite hotel waiter Hari has agreed to go with me as translator, and I have to go get ready and meet him now. My camera is acting up (again!) so I don't know what photos I will be able to get but I will do my best. There should be at least 50 to 100,000 people there.

More later,
Caroline, back in Kathmandoooo!