Pashupatinath Temple in Kathmandu, Nepal

Yesterday we visited Pashupatinath Temple, considered by many to be the holiest place in Nepal. Pashupatinath is a cremation site on the banks of the Baghmati river in Kathmandu. There is a large Hindu temple along with many other buildings that support the cremation process during this difficult time for families. The Hindu cremation ceremony is a very personal experience and we witnessed an especially moving one yesterday.

My husband, Rene, is fascinated by the spectrum of life that is experienced during the cremation ceremony. At this ceremony the singularity of life and death becomes a very personal experience not only for the person being cremated, but for everyone who witnesses it.

Singularity, one point in which time or space do not exist, where there is no life or death, no here or there. The beginning and the end coincide. One point in which the life of the deceased and the life of the family participate together in a delicate ceremony. You see, in the Hindu tradition, from the moment of death until their ashes are swept into the river, the family is responsible for everything. In the western tradition when a person dies we call the mortuary, who comes to either the hospital or home and transfers the body to the funeral home to be prepared for the burial. The mortician prepares and dresses the body for presentation at the funeral in the casket. Then the funeral home holds a viewing in a nice room for friends and family to come and pay their respect in a more personal way than is possible at a funeral. At the funeral everyone dresses nicely in black and arrives at the church to sit stoically in the pews while the minister talks about passing from life to death. As sad and touching as these ceremonies can be, they pale in comparison to what I was able to witness at Pashupatinath yesterday.

After watching several families prepare their loved ones for cremation and seeing the pyres burning, we decided to walk through the “Indiana Jones” temples on the other side of the river. As we were standing and soaking in the experience we saw a large gathering on the side of the river where the ceremonies begin and we decided to sit and watch from the beginning. We saw a body being brought over on a stretcher that was covered with the traditional yellow and red cloth and placed with the feet almost touching the river. There was another smaller “package,” also covered in the traditional cloth near-by and then another body up on the top of the area. Soon we could see that this was not a single cremation, but there were 3 bodies being prepared side by side. As the faces were exposed for the mourners to see, we realized that this was a small family—father, mother and child—all being prepared at the same time. The gathering was very large and as the family took turns going to the river to dip their hands and bring water to their loved ones, several women fainted as they were consumed with grief. Men were holding each other up as they slowly proceeded to the bodies to participate and bless them. Rice is placed in their mouths, incense is burned and water is sprinkled over the bodies. Marigold garlands were placed over the bodies before they were placed on the bamboo stretchers to be carried over to the ghats. We observed this very personal ceremony as a large crowd gathered on both sides of the river, on the bridge and the temple above. Everyone present this day was part of the ceremony as we all sat and silently grieved for a family we did not know. We began to wonder what happened, what caused this tragedy, but could only imagine what took place. I was moved by the very personal experience and how every family member took turns going to touch and bless the bodies. Even through unbearable grief they slowly made their way to the river to say their good-byes in their own way. Everyone was silent as this unfolded before our eyes and we became part of their very tragic and personal experience. All who were present became one with the deceased and their families as the tears mixed with smoke and we sent our prayers towards the heavens.

Namaste!

At Bhaktapur, an ancient Newar town in Kathmandu

A view of the Kathmandu Valley from Swayambhunath

Namaste from Nepal

1. Learn to squat.  While most restaurants in the big cities have “Western toilets,” asking for one promises to get you strange looks.
2. There is always room.  There is a great movie in theaters right now, “The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel,” which takes place in India.  However, almost everything about it can be applied to my experiences in Nepal.  As one character says while trying to squeeze into a bus full of people, “There is always room.”  This can be said about most things in Nepal—the busses, extra guests at a local’s home, even your belly when your host fills your plate with daal bhat for the third time.
3. Don’t eat that—but don’t be afraid to try the local food either.  Every single person we met (tourists, trekkers, aid workers) spent at least an entire day sick.  Somehow, none of us did.  We were very careful about we ate, making sure that everything was cooked before we tried it.  Thankfully, most Nepali food is cooked, and the tea is boiled.  But after a week of filling ourselves with rice and lentils, we had to force ourselves not to order salads.  With that in mind, is would be an injustice to travel to Nepal and deprive yourself of the Nepali cuisine.  Even after we came home I still craved momos, a Nepali-style dumpling, and Chicken Sekuwa, grilled spicy meat.
4. Look up!  Yes, you will step on spit and cow dung, that part is almost inescapable.  But fussing over and side-stepping an on-coming luggie will only make you miss the beautiful scenery.  Even in the streets of Kathmandu where the mountains aren’t visible above the colorful handing garlands, the bright marigold wreaths and beads around brown necks are only the surface of the onslaught of the attack on your senses.  At every turn, a new sight, smell, feeling awaits.
5. Don’t refuse an invitation.  If someone offers you tea, accept.  We must have insulted many people trying to rush off to make the bus get to a meeting on time.
6. On that note- don’t expect the locals to follow the same timetable as you.  The local busses are rarely on time, and it is best not to let yourself get too frustrated.  I cant count how many times we were told, “Don’t worry about it! There’s nothing you can do.”
7. Bring an umbrella.  I finally understand why people carry umbrellas when its not raining.  The temperatures got up to 100 degrees with little shade or wind for relief.  Almost every day we wished had brought an umbrella with us.
8. Watch out for others’ umbrellas.  It seems that on the crowded streets of Kathmandu, you are more likely to be poked in the eye by an umbrella than mugged like most tourists in other cities.
9. Old dogs can learn new tricks.  (Thank you Marigold Hotel, again)  Three weeks in Nepal taught me that most of the Western comforts I took for granted weren’t actually a necessity and our habits were born out of complacency and were ready to be shaken.  We got used to brushing our teeth using our sterilized water.  When we first arrived in Kathmandu, just crossing the street without crossing signals seemed a sure death wish.  We followed closely behind the locals, as my mom screamed at my dad for almost getting us run over.  After just a few days though, we learned to navigate the busy streets on our own with just a few Nepali words shouted at us that we were probably better off not understanding.
10. The world is big, the world is small.  When I was little, there were two places in the world that I considered to be the most different, exotic and unlike anything in my own world: Kathmandu and Timbuktu.  The names just oozed adventure.  Never did I expect to actually visit one of these places.  And being there exceeded every expectation that I had accumulated in preparation.  It is a world different from my own in every way imaginable.  And yet, at its root, it is exactly the same.

A monkey stealing some food

Young monks

Prayer Wheels

-Post by RPS

Note: Please be warned that some of the following images are a little graphic.  I have decided to post pictures of the cremation ceremonies because it is what this sacred place is about.  It was a beautiful and moving experience for us, and while it might be shocking to many readers from Western cultures (as it was to us at first), that is a large part of why it affected us so much.

Three monkeys silhouetted like statues at dusk in Pashupatinath

The banks of the Bagmati where the ashes meet the water

Cremation Ceremony

A colorful reminder of life in the midst of this humbling, yet sacred place

We took a short 25-minute flight from Pokhara to Kathmandu, flying along the mountain range.  The Pokhara airport is tiny, and the metal detector in the “security” section was broken.  The flight announcement we were told would be made was actually just a man running around telling passengers it was time to go through security.  While waiting for our flight, we saw a small Buddha Air plane take off.  We were told that was our plane.  The small propeller plane made its way to Kathmandu and back in one hour, getting us in the air just in time to see the Himalayas peaking its white tips high into the sky.

The two curtains behind me block off the security rooms at the airport.  There are no x-ray machines and the metal detectors weren’t working, so the men and women were taken into the separate rooms for a pat down.

After we landed in Kathmandu, someone pointed to small figures running across the runway.  I turned and saw dozens of monkeys running from one end to the other and over a high fence into the trees.  I shouldn’t have been so surprised to see them.  Animals run free all over Nepal.  In fact, Chitwan, in Southern Nepal, has a large National Park that houses Bengal tigers, leopards, pythons and the second largest population of Asian Rhinoceros.  In Kathmandu, large cows with fresh marigold wreaths around their necks sleep unharmed like center dividers in the busy streets.  But for some reason, the monkeys on the runway completely caught me off guard.

Dozens of monkeys ran across the runway and climbed over the fence.

We arrived back in Kathmandu around noon, and seeing the drive to the hotel in the daylight gave me a completely different perspective of the city.  Our first time there, it was pitch black when we arrived, and my mom joked that it was a good thing I couldn’t see where we were going.  This time, I saw the back alleys, the rubble on the side of the road, the pothole-ridden street that led to our hotel.  I was thankful that I had already seen Kathmandu in the daylight, because if this were my first impression, I would have asked the driver to turn around.

The Kathmandu baggage claim.  The men stand on the carts waving the luggage until someone claims it.

Phewa Lake at dusk

It is likely that the types of tourists who visit are the reason that Pokhara has maintained its charm.  Although the street signs are in English and the restaurants serve hamburgers, the trekkers and the hippies, not always mutually exclusive, respect the landscape and genuinely love the country.  Many vagabonds stop in Pokhara on their way to another place and end up spending years there, lured in by the bohemian luster.  Dreadlocks and flowing skirts float past you with cheery far-off smiles as you make your way to the next shop with hanging scarves and colorful woolen rugs.  Caught somewhere between 1840’s Paris and a Moroccan bazaar, this little city entranced us too.

We spent two days in Lakeside Pokhara, basking in our post-valley luxuries.  We relished the air conditioner, refrigerator, and wifi, and even the 14-hour long government-inflicted blackouts everyday couldn’t hamper our moods.

Dad and Mom at Phewa Lake

On our first night, I ordered pizza at a wonderful restaurant called Moondance.  I devoured it, thankful for the break from our twice-daily daal bhats.  But after that night of satisfying my Western cravings, I continued to enjoy the Nepali cuisine, which is delicious.  I had had Nepali food before our trip, but I was not prepared for how much I would love every dish I tried.  There are many different types of Nepali foods, the most common of which is daal bhat, but the flavors resemble everything from Indian to Hawaiian.  Some of the spices are familiar; they use garlic and onions in almost every dish, with cilantro, ginger and cardamom permeating even the smallest serving of pickled vegetables.

Even after we left the valley, we continued to enjoy the local foods.  Our daily lunches consisted of chicken momos, a Nepali-style dumpling, and garlic naan.  We soaked up the laid-back hippie lifestyle, feeling comforted to be surrounded by English-speaking Americans and Europeans again, but thrilled by the unique Lakeside Nepali culture.  We spent our time in Pokhara wandering the streets, in the hot sun, visiting the small shopkeepers with their windows draped in cashmere and prayer beads.  Beautiful dilapidated but colorful rowboats floated on the lake like petals on a pond, and the entire Lakeside seemed to be enveloped by a sense of calm.  Our time in Pokhara was absolutely perfect.

In the late afternoon Shree came down from the chicken farm with a live chicken in his arms. He put it in the storeroom to wait until the water boiled, in order to pluck the feathers. With a quick slice, and a dunk into the boiling water Shree began plucking. Since we didn’t have the knives to butcher it, Shree took the chicken to the local butcher. He asked me how I wanted the chicken cut and I told him that any way the butcher did it was fine with me.

I had begun to cook the potatoes, onions and garlic when then the power went out. It was getting dark, and this reminded me of the times when I was using a camp stove. The kitchen does not have any running water or refrigeration and without light it was hard to see what I was cooking. When Shree returned with the butchered chicken, he handed me a small black plastic bag, full of a cut-up chicken, every part of it including the bones and organs.

Nabaraj and Shree returned with the local wine and a few neighbors stopped by to taste American food. We all laughed and had a good time. Even Shailee and Bimala (Shailee’s cousin who lived with them) ate with everyone in the living room. Funny thing though, the chicken tasted Nepali. I think the spices are embedded in the wok. When Shree asked me what the name of my dish was I said “motorcycle chicken.” He just smiled and knew why. I named it that because the chickens are carried, live, to the markets tied to the handlebars of the motorcycle.

Shree, proudly holding his chicken

I really enjoyed my last few days there, and cursed the close-mindedness I once had.  Our Farewell Ceremony was even grander than our Welcoming Ceremony.  My dad was presented with a “topi,” a Nepali-style hat that the respected men of the community wear.  My mom and I received beautiful Nepali cloths to be worn as shawls.  We were thanked for our visit and for our contributions to the village.  We were called things like “honorable” and “distinguished”—descriptions that certainly don’t fit us.  That is how the Nepali people speak.  Every white person is “a wonderful personality.”  But we couldn’t help feeling unworthy of all of the hoopla.  We tried as best as we could to explain that they had touched us as much as we touched them.

My dad, mom and me following the Farewell Ceremony.  My dad also received a “mala,” the gorgeous wreath around his neck.

Saying goodbye to Shailee and the children (Jenisa, their 4 year daughter, and Babu, which means “little boy,” their 2 year old son), was much more emotional than we had expected.  For the last week, they shared their food with us and shared their lives with us.  These two children touched us immensely, with their beautiful smiles and infectious laughter.  When I hugged Shailee, I saw tears in her eyes and all the efforts I had made to suppress mine were futile.

My mom with Jenisa, whom we nicknamed Princess, and Babu

Nabaraj and Jenisa accompanied us to Pokhara, our next stop, because Jenisa goes to school in Pokhara where her grandparents live.  She sat in the backseat with my mom, dad and me during the long car ride, and fell asleep spread across our laps.  We were all secretly happy that we didn’t have to say goodbye to her until the next morning.

The ride to Pokhara was similar to our ride out to the valley from Kathmandu, except for one strange occurrence. We took a “jeep,” which is really just an old pickup truck, and when we arrived at the river to cross, the driver stopped and asked us to get out.  This was the car wash.  We stood to the side for 30 minutes as he splashed water into the bed and behind the wheels.  Sure enough, the truck was clean.

As we drove into Pokhara, the streets were packed with people dressed head-to-toe in red, and busses drove past us with red flags.  There was a Communist Convention.  The Maoists took control of the government a few years ago, and were gaining support from the impoverished Nepali people.  These conventions happen every once in while to ensure that their commitment doesn’t waiver.  Throughout the city, hammer and sickle signs were abundant.  This must have been the first time I had seen such outward support of Communism, and I was scared.

The Princess.  Photo taken by my dad.