Mountain Mantra; “Bistare bistare”
Bhangjang – four houses, maybe 10 permanent residents, no electricity, no English

As I sit back and let the holes in my body heal, I’m (slowly) assimilating all my new experiences.

For me, “bistare bistare”…Nepalese for “slowly slowly,” was without a doubt the most important recurring theme on the mountain. Everything from grass-cutting on slippery mountainsides to cooking dinner or just walking to the toilet MUST be done very slowly.

There was the night they chopped up a buffalo head on the floor next to where I ate (in the darkness I could never be sure of specifics..was that my blood on the floor? Buffalo blood? Was there a leech that was getting away with murder?) Long strips of tripe hung for days uncomfortably close to my head until they were completely dried. I was obliged on several occasions to consume buffalo masu (meat). The crunchy bits (cartilage, perhaps?) and chewy consistency reminded me of the nightmares I used to have years ago where I would chew a piece of meat endlessly but the gristly bits would never break down…

On several occasions I was given a special treat: fresh buffalo milk. I was not generally asked whether I wanted to drink buffalo milk. It was just handed to me in a simple (relatively extravagant) gesture of respect to guests (Guest is God), whereupon I would need to figure out how to “consume” my portion. It has a strange flavor that at first I regarded as repulsive but later came to appreciate in some way (but not quite enjoy). One thing keeping me from embracing the baby buffalo within are the substantial chunks of mucous that inevitably find their way into my mouth. (I know I've toughened up, but I am Sorry. This is just too revolting for words. Add to that the fact that they kill the baby buffaloes so we can drink their milk...need I say more?

Nepali Mountain Women are STRONG - These women were so strong that I never stopped being amazed the entire time I was on the mountain. They regularly heave 20-30 kilos up the steep (and slippery!) mountainside using huge baskets strapped to their foreheads. I once lifted 25 kilos this way and confirmed my suspicion that you need a really strong neck muscle to pull it off.

As a matter of fact, all the daily "chores" on the mountainside are very dangerous, another reason to do everything slowly. In my early days I was open (but not enthusiastic, given the leech infestation) to the benign-sounding task of grass-cutting. Unused to wielding a machete ("asi" in Nepali), it took less than 10 minutes for me to hack into my left hand. Around this time I became aware of several things: 1) The machete is very, very sharp and heavy; 2) my 15-year old companion (Ganga) has many severe-looking scars covering her hands; 3) I should cut grass more slowly.

The near-complete lack of access to health care is an interesting experience for me, and I continue to cogitate on it. Many times during my stay I witnessed "close calls" as well as actual injuries sustained in the course of normal daily activities. Each time someone had a significant fall (soooo easy to trip or slip at any moment!), those around would collectively inhale until the damage could be assessed. Serious injury is a scary thing in a remote place. Worst case scenario? (I assume) a helicopter can be summoned and several people can heave you up to the peak where there is a UN-funded helicopter pad. But only if you're a tourist..

I met one Nepali girl with a fresh snake bite. She and her family all wore grave expressions. Seems the only thing to do is wait and see if it gets worse. There simply is no doctor. One day, the right side of Ama's (the 50 year-old woman whose home I shared for several weeks) face exploded like a balloon. Something was clearly very wrong with her tooth and I was able to confirm that there was a lot of pain. Over the course of the next 5 or 6 days, the swelling slowly went down, but no doctor was ever sought. This is Nepali medical care. Every night that I went to bed without any serious injury was another great reason to thank God.

The mountain village environment was so different from anything I have previously experienced, that I have great difficulty approximating all the "new information" I was able to absorb there. When the rains came, there was little to do but sit on the floor, preferably close to the fire, and watch.

Watch the women cook meals (daal bhat – a mountain of white rice with lentil soup), work (smearing red clay along the clay fireplaces to repair cracks and missing parts), make the local alcoholic beverage "roxie," with the strength of a nice wine but the flavor of something more whisky-like. Cooking roxie is a labor-intensive process that was often repeated throughout the day; boil a huge pot of fermented "codo" (millet) water and collect the steam in another pot. The procedure takes maybe 4 hours and produces about 2 litres of alcohol, which the worker men (who aren't working because of the rain) suck down as fast as the women can make it. I'll admit, after an entire day spent cold, wet, and crouching next to a small fire on the floor in the kitchen while it pours rain, a cup of fresh hot roxie is Really Appreciated…

I’m tapped for now..more soon,

All my love,

LMA