Through traveling I developed a new understanding of lifestyle- and by that I mean not the material ‘stuffs’ we surround ourselves with, but the luxuries of human rights which are so readily taken for granted, even by myself. The freedom of having a personal identity, and the capability of crafting my own creative image gives me more wealth than dollars and cents ever could. Traveling to Kathmandu provided perspective on Asia, living in another country, and life in the developing world. Moving throughout Nepal showed me the immense luxury of the Kathmandu metropolis, which offers equality, social justice, and (superficially) any food your tummy could long for.

Experientially this all offers more than I could have dreamt, and Kathmandu has its own pockets of comfort. My neighborhood in Thapathali is full of kites hanging in the sky, children playing, the scent of spices roasting in mustard oil, uniformed children walking to school, men pushing bicycles of produce shouting, and small metal bells waking God up in the morning. The woman I buy samosas from can set her watch by my 10:30 visits, and the fruit man knows I want two kilos of mango. He helps me find the ripest few. At night the dogs bark like mad, but the monsoon showers quiet their cries. Creating a paste of basmati rice, black dal, saag and daikon pickle, my fingers know just how to scoop up a bite and pop it into my mouth. My feet have learned new shortcuts between the houses and my nose knows whether the woman next door is frying timmur, jimbu, or cumin.

More than the external senses of this place, my heart has found a space in those of others. The people I have met here have shown me endless hospitality, humor, and love. Although I came into their life with an expiration date, these people I am so proud to call my friends, accepted me without apprehension or self-consciousness. Rather than guarding their heart from the foreigner who already had one foot back in America, they welcomed me into their homes and lives.

Kathmandu has offered perspective in so many ways it’s difficult to understand how this experience will change me. JB asked me last night at our final going-away dinner what I will remember about Nepal, and how I will be different from this experience. Integrating Nepal into my American life will have to wait until I return to the states, but the values of welcoming, opening, and sharing a vulnerable heart with strangers who become friends is something I will never forget.

Earlier today the journalist Shanta (pronounced san-tah, or Santa sans red suit) introduced us to a teacher she was meeting for the first time. He told her of a program in which a group of dalits and nondalits in a village outside Dahran will sign a promise to end untouchability in the area. Untouchability is already illegal; we were somewhat skeptical about the effectiveness of holding a program to sign a sheet. As we traveled through the village, the tall, thick-lensed teacher lead us to the organizers of the program, who we asked:

What was your involvement with the program?
Do you think this will create change?
How is it different from a law?

And, the one which appeared to be the most difficult to answer: If the law isn’t enforced, how will signing this sheet be enforced?

After meeting the organizers, and interviewing a few people from the village we made our way to the schoolhouse where the program would be held. Sitting on a bench in the back of the classroom, the teacher came to me in a huff, “Where is Jes?” I didn’t know. The teacher made his leave, searching the grounds. Moments later Jes arrived at my side, “The teacher was looking for you. I think they’re waiting to start…” I couldn’t finish my sentence before the teacher interrupted.

“There you are, come up, we want to welcome you.” Jes passed the camera, was whisked to the front of the class where he gave a namaste to the crowd and was adorned with a crimson tikka and flowery garland.

Moments later he was off, and the teacher asked for me to join the front of the class. Handing off the camera, I too took my place in front of the crowd, gave a namaste, and was welcomed to the program with flowers and tikka.

Shortly after, I held someone’s blue eyed baby surrounded by a gaggle of women, spoke with a student about her work on ending discrimination while group of twenty watched from a foot away, and shot the blaring speeches, songs, and announcements piped into an open field through an amplifier. More eyes were on Jes and I than the speakers.

Taking leave from the program, I felt like a cultural spectacle. Our image as Caucasian filmmakers was used to draw attention to the poorly advertised program, however we simultaneously distracted from the positive message presented. Focus was directed on us specifically rather than the issues at hand, and judgment based on external features was reinforced rather than quelled.

I came to Nepal to help fight against discrimination and to give the unrepresented a chance to craft their own image. As a foreigner, I was perceived in a very positive and excited way. It must be intolerable to be despised. I had no idea that through doing human rights work, I could become a cultural commodity.

In California when I commuted from Marina to Santa Cruz, I drove up and down the Monterey Bay strawberry, artichoke, and spinach strip of Highway 1 daily. Out in the fields at harvest time groups of Hispanic workers carried colorful plastic boxes and filled them with fruits and vegetables. Mostly the fields looked austere and vacant. Their straight rows flew past, each precise in its line toward the coast.

These paddy fields are anything but empty. Men plow their muddy bottom, coaxing their water buffalo and cows with sticks as they guide the yoke. Women bend at the waist, plunking individual paddy stocks into the flooded sites. As we walk toward Dipendra’s village, the late afternoon sunshine on my face, a few women stop their work to watch us pass, while others keep their wiry limbs in constant motion and faces down toward the mud.

In Saptari there’s a distinctive posture– it’s one of being bent over eternally. Old women look as though they’d fall straight on their face at a pat on the back. They watch their feet moving along the ground, seeing only the present without a glimpse of the future landscape ahead. Even young women seem to be slouched, from a short lifetime spent folded at the waist, planting and harvesting.

As I turn for a panoramic view of the layers of lush rice paddy, I feel privileged to stand upright, and fortunate that I am appreciating the beauty, rather than dwelling in the toil of this laborious land. Rather than only seeing the present– the food I need to eat today, my feet moving along the uneven ground, the pile of seedlings drying quickly in the sun– I have the luxury to pull my shoulders back and look ahead to the landscape of my future.

Yesterday a young girl put her palms together and smiled shyly at me in a polite namaste. She stands at most three feet tall, and looks up at me with brown six-year-old eyes. I give her a big smile and return her greeting. She flees behind her mother’s skirt.
Two journalists from Radio Jagaran have brought us to this girl’s home, canopied by guava trees and bottlebrush. The community lies outside Butwal and is picturesque with its verdant paddy fields surrounded by hills. To Nepalis they’re hills, but ask any American and they’re mountains.

In this lush settlement, the young dalit girl in front of me, chewing a guava fresh from the tree, was raped two months ago. A non dalit 15-year-old boy lead her away from school, down a path toward her home, and… I’d rather not think about it as I revel in how tiny she is gnawing on that guava.

I’m unsure how to fathom and comprehend. How can I empathize with this small-handed girl or her mother and family? Our experiences are so divergent, but I realize I am also doing everything in my power to help them.

Although this is the boy’s second offense in 2 years, no legal action has been executed against him. With the six-year-old he raped last year, his family gave hers a plot of land and called it even. No such compensation has been accepted this year, and the family demands justice, not a settlement. By capturing the family’s plight, as well as gathering visual evidence, including the girl leading Prakash down the same fateful trail, Radio Jagaran hopes to use the footage to bring action to the case.

Feeling disheartened, we left the settlement and headed back to Baglung. The image of the teeny girl in a dress and her mother stuck with me. Would I know these people if her daughter wasn’t raped? Probably not. Ethically I’m apprehensive about potentially exploiting such a sensitive subject. At the same time, media may be their only hope for justice.

Being passionate about human rights and the role that media can play in changing people’s lives for the better also takes its toll; it’s difficult to restrain my own empathy. Improving people’s lives, even in a basic way, is one of my great driving forces in producing creative work and teaching others how to produce for themselves. I hope that I’m giving all I’m getting.

She rose from crouching on the floor, and peered into her pot, stirring vigorously without a slight cough from the smoking onions. Her sweat from the hot fire gathered quickly, and she wiped it from her face using her shaal. Opening her favorite jar of mango pickle, she inhaled deeply, enjoying the sweet, spicy fragrance. This was an occasion fit for such a delicacy.

The clang of metal pounding metal was as frequent in her kitchen as the sizzle of potatoes in oil. Outside her door, a man worked with her husband shaping brass vessels for water and food. His sweat was as thick as hers, gathering on his shoulders, neck, and back as rhythmically he drummed the brass into a perfect cylinder. Like her knife protruding from the floor, a huge iron stake protruded from the earth and he maneuvered the basin, then banged it against the stake with his hammer. Rotating the brass over and over, he forged a large, sturdy container, removed it from the stake, and laid it to rest with the other pots he’d finished this week by the entryway.

The woman heaped out plates of rice, carefully added the mango pickle, and served her curries and dal in single bowls with ardor. Shooting in the indigo and lavender sitting room, I interviewed this family’s daughter. At only 23 she is a journalist and human rights activist, and is also studying in university. Over the clang of the metalwork, she explained softly in Nepali about becoming involved in human rights due to discrimination.

As she spoke about not being allowed in the kitchen of homes as a child, for fear she would pollute the food, her mother entered bearing heaping plates of rice and a smile that could warm Greenland. Putting the camera to the side, we accepted the food with bowed heads and empty stomaches.

More and more bowls arrived, and the woman of the house returned to fill our home made plates and water glasses. At that lunch both her parent’s work joined and synthesized a new story; one about the respect and reverence for foreign guests, one about the cooperation of family, and one about the work of their hands.

While traveling abroad I didn’t expect to do any recreational trekking, as there’s a documentary to be made, people to help, and more fiscally responsible ways to see Nepal. To my delight, we spent the afternoon climbing up a steep set of stairs, past huts, fountains, and mineral springs, to reach the Dalit settlement at the top. An hour and a half climb from Baglung would be a veritable journey for the elderly Nepalis we met on their way down to town bearing walking sticks and weather lines.

Mounting the top, we all took a rest under a huge Buddha tree and talked with a few female villagers who were gathered around a fountain. From our hilltop vista of the town below, they told us about the legal complications of the drinking water, as well as showing us a temple where Dalit have been restricted from worship. Their story of discrimination was disheartening, but their eyes and spirits seemed strong. Children herded buffalo and old women came out from their home to greet us with their palms pressed together and their heads bowed offering us water and shade. Humbled can’t begin to describe…

Mahesh and Purna came to the settlement to interview a woman for an article who married a man from a higher caste. She was attending university in Baglung when her landlord evicted her for the trespass, and she was forced to move to this remote settlement. Although her story was gathered in Nepali, her body language and inflection crossed all language boundaries, and was powerful to witness and record. Mahesh and Purna took copious notes, asking her to elaborate. Before we left she offered us water, and I pondered her sacrifice to fill our cups.

Traveling back to Pokhara from Baglung my legs shook gently, reminding me of the climb and my heart reminded me of the people who were already home. Traveling is not only imperative for philanthropy and to tell a story, but to craft my own and develop into the self I want to be. Slowly, I think I’m becoming that person. Gradually, I’m home.

Two days ago there was a strike by the people selling petrol, because they were forced to keep prices unreasonably low.

Last week public transportation created a bandha because fares charged to the public were too low.

The week before that students created a bandha because fares were too high.

Two weeks ago there was a bandha because students didn’t have books.

It’s never-ending. After nearly 3 weeks of the country being virtually shut down and crippled by the lack of transportation and communication among factions, we had a few days to get out of Kathmandu before another strike, bandha, or other shenanigans started again.

Our trip from Pokhara to Baglung was bandha-ed by a day. Next bandha, I’m taking a donkey.

We hired a taxi for the afternoon and drove 15 kilometers out of Pokhara to reach the Dalit settlement. To get to the community, we walked 10 minutes from the road, then descended through a steep cavernous gorge to a patchwork of paddies. Small clay huts were interspersed with rice fields full of men, women, children and oxen. Men and boys were plowing, yoking the oxen in parallel lines, while women and girls cut the grassy paddy and shook the loose earth from their fibers.

After interviewing a woman about her life and experiences, she looked me deeply in the eyes and touched me on the back. She said something to me in Nepali, and Prakash said, “I’m having some trouble with language… she said she really liked you and loved you and would like to smoke corn and eat it with you.” Her eyes were dark and shining as we both placed our palms together, bowed our heads, and joined momentarily.

The taxi driver came with us down to the settlement; he watched us with unabashed curiosity as the bags which were just in his trunk contained cameras not clothes and camping supplies, and we spoke with people open heartedly rather than in the cold, distant language of trekkers. Down in the fields, he was attentive and engaged, and even offered to carry Jes’ camera bag on our way back up the steep stairs through the gorge out of the settlement. Of course, Jes declined but was touched that he was as giving as the people we’d just interviewed. I hope the taxi driver had a good tale to share with his family, or at least experienced something as new as I did.

While talking with the community, visiting their homes, and spending time with them in the field, I was invited into a man’s clay hut which he’d built with his own hands. How humbling to see the one room he and his family shared, with one light bulb, and small fireplace to cook their daily meals. The entire ceiling was covered with corn in the husks, drying in spiky stalactites. Their toilet was in a shack outside, shared with their neighbors. Mine was connected to my room glossed in white porcelain with a bath tub and shower head.

Pokhara is the tourist capital of Nepal, as it huddles along the Annapurna Himalayan hiking trail and has picturesque views of the mountains from across Phewa Tal.

The atmosphere is much quieter and more comfortable for a Western crowd than Kathmandu, but there is a surplus of tourist accommodations compared to the number of tourists. In the 60′s there was an over investment in the tourist and trekking market, which slowed considerably due to political upheaval. When the area became dangerous due to Maoist insurgency, foreingers were scarce and their numbers haven’t regained since. This makes businesses desperate, as their prices are too high to cater to Nepalis, so the few tourists present in Pokharas streets are bombarded. Walking without Prakash, and sometimes with him, brings waves of voices beckoning to try this restaurant, buy this pashmina, or take this taxi.

For July we’ll be traveling by microbus, which is a glorified minivan, most often through rural and impoverished areas. I’m prepared for massive quantities of dhal bhat (traditional lentil, rice, and vegetable meal) and copious mosquito bites. More than that, I’m excited for the individuals I will meet, the experience of traveling throughout the country, and diving headfirst into a new environment. Living in Kathmandu the past month has shifted my ideas of luxury, culture, development, pollution, and design; I’m curious to see how all these perspectives shift, slide, and landslide. I just hope I can catch it on the landslide cam without getting mud on the lens.