A Little Bit Country
Cities can be a wonderful thing. It seems there is little that appeals more to the senses than a well-designed concentration of the finer things civilization has to offer. I have had the fortune to live in some very big cities myself. The flip side of the coin, of course, is not necessarily tangible at all times: higher crime, noise levels, pollution…these are all inconveniences that city dwellers will gladly write off and ignore, as long as the assets on the left, the pro-column, enable them to maintain a certain lifestyle. Being from a small town, I feel blessed to have been a part of so many urban settings. And yet, anybody will confirm that to witness the country’s true character, you must go to the country.
As a member of the Himalayan Hash House Harriers, the self-proclaimed drinking group with a running problem, I get to see the countryside each weekend. Last Saturday was one of those a-ha! moments since coming to Kathmandu.
Before we start our run, I witness only my second or third funeral proceeding. What I first had first mistaken as an oversized mutton chop loaded on a bamboo stretcher, and gift-wrapped in coats of many, many colors turns out to be a very dead person, on his (her) way to his final resting place, which means the river, with little doubt. Hindis must burn their dead quickly in order to send the person on his journey to the next life.
The pall bearers (bamboo carriers?) are trailed by a marching contingency of about forty men. When I ask a Nepali here where the women are, he shakes his head and mutters, “They’re at home pretending to cry and mourn.” It can be quite heart warming to encounter that type of compassion.
After scaling the top of a medium-sized hill of about 1800 meters, we have to submit to the simple logic that we will have to run downhill at some time. The trail then takes us through a little village where a cow is on the loose. This cow decides she is not going to be caught, a pretty solid assumption when you consider that people would have to chase her downhill, no less. The runners somehow pass the cow, avoiding the street she was occupying.
We finally run into the central market place. A huge throng of people have gathered here, their heads bobbing up and down like puppets. The choice is simple here. Either slow down to a walk, or at the very least a trot, or keep running and body check a score of innocent locals into the dirt. Curious of the spectacle, we pivot toward where the action is. This isn’t the coming of one of their many Gods or an animal sacrifice. The biggest crowd I have seen so far in Nepal is watching a hip-hop group. I find most American hip-hop abominable. Maybe I don’t pretend to recognize the art in it. Even so, I give the Nepali hip-hop (is this word even hyphenated? I just don’t care enough to check it) group thirty seconds of my divided attention (I am still walking through a crowd) before I hightail it out of there. I am assuming (and hoping) that the cow does not join the crowd.
Our path eventually leads us over several bridges, bamboo contraptions strong enough to hold a few people crossing the river one way. And then there are always the children. Some will run along with us as long as their little lungs will allow it. Certainly all of them will greet us, either in Nepali or in English, which is quite an upgrade from the rock-throwing kids in Arabic countries. To the kids here, the Hashers running is the equivalent of the New York City marathon.
After the run, the Hashers stick around for some beer, talk, good natured ribbing in the circle, and the sunset rising over the mountains to the west. All in a day’s work, courtesy of the big, under populated, highly primitive and beautiful countryside.
As a member of the Himalayan Hash House Harriers, the self-proclaimed drinking group with a running problem, I get to see the countryside each weekend. Last Saturday was one of those a-ha! moments since coming to Kathmandu.
Before we start our run, I witness only my second or third funeral proceeding. What I first had first mistaken as an oversized mutton chop loaded on a bamboo stretcher, and gift-wrapped in coats of many, many colors turns out to be a very dead person, on his (her) way to his final resting place, which means the river, with little doubt. Hindis must burn their dead quickly in order to send the person on his journey to the next life.
The pall bearers (bamboo carriers?) are trailed by a marching contingency of about forty men. When I ask a Nepali here where the women are, he shakes his head and mutters, “They’re at home pretending to cry and mourn.” It can be quite heart warming to encounter that type of compassion.
After scaling the top of a medium-sized hill of about 1800 meters, we have to submit to the simple logic that we will have to run downhill at some time. The trail then takes us through a little village where a cow is on the loose. This cow decides she is not going to be caught, a pretty solid assumption when you consider that people would have to chase her downhill, no less. The runners somehow pass the cow, avoiding the street she was occupying.
We finally run into the central market place. A huge throng of people have gathered here, their heads bobbing up and down like puppets. The choice is simple here. Either slow down to a walk, or at the very least a trot, or keep running and body check a score of innocent locals into the dirt. Curious of the spectacle, we pivot toward where the action is. This isn’t the coming of one of their many Gods or an animal sacrifice. The biggest crowd I have seen so far in Nepal is watching a hip-hop group. I find most American hip-hop abominable. Maybe I don’t pretend to recognize the art in it. Even so, I give the Nepali hip-hop (is this word even hyphenated? I just don’t care enough to check it) group thirty seconds of my divided attention (I am still walking through a crowd) before I hightail it out of there. I am assuming (and hoping) that the cow does not join the crowd.
Our path eventually leads us over several bridges, bamboo contraptions strong enough to hold a few people crossing the river one way. And then there are always the children. Some will run along with us as long as their little lungs will allow it. Certainly all of them will greet us, either in Nepali or in English, which is quite an upgrade from the rock-throwing kids in Arabic countries. To the kids here, the Hashers running is the equivalent of the New York City marathon.
After the run, the Hashers stick around for some beer, talk, good natured ribbing in the circle, and the sunset rising over the mountains to the west. All in a day’s work, courtesy of the big, under populated, highly primitive and beautiful countryside.
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