one year later

I stand on the shores of the Seti River in Doti. A woman passes me by with a sandbag balanced by a strap across her head. She wears a red sari and gold jewelry in her nose and ears. She looks familiar, I know I’ve seen her face before. Prakash turns to me and asks, do you recognize her?

A little further downstream, I am lead to a man’s home in a mostly Dalit settlement. The path is narrow and slippery. On the front steps of his clay hut, his sons lay straw mats. The man call us prabha and malik, referring to us as gods and lords. As I sit, Prakash turns to me and asks, do you recognize him?

I know the woman with the gold jewelry and the man who calls me god from Devin Greenleaf’s photographs and blogs. Devin, a friend of mine and a talented photographer, visited Doti about a last year. His pictures were the first images I saw of the Nepal I was to visit this summer. I am astonished those images and stories are alive before me. To find these particular individuals in a region like this is incredible. They don’t even have electricity here.

When Devin came last summer, the woman was hammering rocks by the shore of the Seti River. She made 15 rupees a day, almost 7 dollars a month. Today, she hauls bags of sand more than two kilometers along the river from 6 in the morning until 7 at night. She’s not sure what the sand will be used for, she says with a shrug. Maybe buildings, maybe a bridge. She does make almost 100 rupees a day now, though her knees and back hurt more.

The woman’s fifteen-year-old daughter, who Devin had found out was attending school last year, is now married. Her mother thinks this is best for her, even though she had to drop out of school. He is a good boy, after all.

Phagire, the old man, plays the drums for us. His music is to give energy to laborers during the harvest season. Like most in the settlement, he doesn’t work for money, only grains. This year there were two deaths in the settlement, so he could not play the drums during the harvest season as tradition dictates. I walk back through the narrow and slippery path with his loud and constant pounding in my ears.

two options

’m in a pharmacy fifteen kilometers north of Nepalgunj in a dusty travelers’ town named Kohulpur. Bhim Nepali, the journalist we have come to visit, brought us here an hour ago for Phoebe and now I am back to pick up the medicine and pay the bill. Nepali’s eat rice twice a day, with stewed vegetables and daal. Outside of Kathmandu, this is the only option for hot food. Despite the fiber supplements she took three times a day, Phoebe’s stomach didn’t digest all that rice and for five days her system refused to move things through. She spent yesterday lying in bed.

I scan the bill, which comes to 330 rupees, a little less than five dollars. I look down the list of items: the taking of blood pressure, a urinary sample, a pink substance he told her to swallow in the examining room that looked like pepto bismal and now we must pay for the entire bottle. There is also a pile of other pills and bottles he is stuffing into a bag for her to take: a chewable tab for stomach worms, a sheet of pills for something called gastric, a bottle of liquid for what I think is heartburn and a few painkillers. These are the medicines he says she must take to cure her of her disease.

A woman sits with her young daughter behind me. The girl has a lump the size of a golf ball on her neck. She waits for the doctor to finish with me before he can call her into the space behind a bed sheet hanging from the ceiling that serves as the examining room. An old lady sits next to her with a bandage around her eye and another around her ear. A few others sit on benches close by. I can sense their attention in our exchange and the doctor’s growing impatience with my questions. Perhaps he is not used to patients challenging his choice of medicines.

A few weeks ago, after experiencing mild stomach agitation and headaches, Prakash had gone to see a doctor in Kathmandu. The doctor suggested to eat more hot Nepali food. This doctor had given the same suggestion to Phoebe. Perhaps this is the cure for most illnesses here? Wasn’t all that rice a source of her problem?

Prakash acts as translator, but in English the doctor tells me I have two options. One, she could take all these medicines and be cured tomorrow morning, or two, she could go to the hospital. The choice, he says, is mine to make.

As I walk back to the hotel empty handed, I hope perhaps the doctor’s simplification comes from the fact that English is not his first language. Surely he’s not so browbeat with those Nepali who rely on his medical knowledge to keep them safe from illness; those Nepali who might not have as much education as I do, or might not have the reasoning to ask simple questions or the courage to disagree with supposed medical authorities.

the one people look to

It’s overcast and grey this morning, but so far no rain. Shiba, the manager of Radio Jagaran, tells me with a smile that it has not stopped raining for five days, so we must have brought the nice weather with us from Kathmandu. I look up at the clouds and smile.

The vehicle we take to the settlement will only start by pushing it. I lend a hand along with three others and once the motor catches, we all jump in. The twenty minute ride takes us past fields to villages of clay huts and thatched roofs. We turn off onto a dirt road and soon stop in the middle of a wide expanse of rice paddies with a few huts off in the distance. Once out of the van, I’m startled by the serenity and quiet.

We pass a group of men and boys sitting in the shade of a guava tree. They nod as we step around their stares. We come across a family waiting for us outside their hut. Raya, one of the radio journalists, gestures to a small girl clutching the hand of a woman next to her. Her hair is tassled and she wears a white dress that looks a size or two too small, even for her small frame. Raya says in a low voice, that’s the girl.

The family offers us water, and we exchange some small talk. Prakash and I then lead the mother away from the courtyard. I carry the camera and he asks the questions: Have you noticed any change in your daughter? How has your relation with the village changed? Who have you told?

Some of the villagers hear a video camera is in the settlement and they gather underneath the huge bodhi tree where our van is parked. We walk back to meet them. Men opine about the matter, women clean pots and pans from the water pump and children play in the tall grass nearby. The sky has remained overcast, but the rain has held up. Raya points to another girl, just as small, who is washing a dish by the water pump. It happened to her, too, she says. The same boy.

I’m overwhelmed with responsibility. As a white man, I am perceived in this country as someone with the power to do something. My camera is proof of this. After all is said, I am the one people look to for answers, for plans, for resources. I understand this from the eagerness in which Nepalis receive me into their homes: I am the first to receive a glass of water, even before those who are older. The reverence I get when I enter a place of business: owners abandon other shoppers to assist me. The respect I receive when I visit a village, the village elders always invite me into their home for tea. The hope I see in the eyes of those who have been victimized.

It is difficult to comprehend the helplessness a mother must feel whose six-year-old daughter was raped by a 16-year-old who lives in her village. The powerlessness of not getting any support from the police. The vulnerability of opening up her life to a foreign man with a camera so that she might have some hope of regaining any kind of justice for her and for her daughter.

open and close

The burning ghats along the Bagmati River are no more than elevated stone tables. Today is Saturday, a holy day for Hindus, and there is a waiting line to burn the dead. JB and I stand 20 meters away on the other side of the river, but I can still inhale the smoke, although I try not to think about it.

Do the families of the dead bring their own wood to burn or do they buy it here? JB seems to think they could do both, but he’s not sure. There is a large market outside the gates of Pashupati where I saw flowers and trinkets for sale. I didn’t see any wood, but maybe you have to ask for it. The same might be for the orange cloth the body is wrapped in.

I hear a cry from across the river. I watch two men support a woman as she circles a body, five, six, seven times. She is incapable of supporting herself. A wooden coffin sits next to the pile of wood. JB thinks the box was used to ship the body to Nepal. There are many Nepali who work overseas, he explains.

There are people, like JB and I, taking pictures. I hear the shutters open and close; open and close. There are vendors selling juice or snacks. If we climb the stairs there are chairs to look out across the river into the temple and down onto the ghats. We decide to climb, for a better view of our surroundings.

in any language

Bhola and Dipendra, two Dalit journalists who I’ve traveled 10 hours to visit, share mangoes with me this morning. I am told I will never eat a mango like the mangoes I will eat in Saptari. Two kilos sell for 50 rupees from piles stacked higher than the children who sell them. I eat mine like an apple before I board a bus to a Dalit settlement 10 kilometers away. We eat food now because we will not find any this afternoon at the settlement.

The bus, like all of Saptari, remains wet during the entirety of the monsoon season. The man next to me drips onto the floor. I don’t mind being wet, but I am concerned about the equipment we carry: two professional video cameras, one professional digital SLR, and two point-and-shoots - totaling 20 times the average Nepali’s yearly income. I could also put it this way: the average Nepali would have to work 20 years saving every rupee to afford to carry the equipment at my feet. Which could break if gotten wet.

We reach the mostly Dalit settlement and the news of our arrival spreads quickly. Bhola, Dipendra and JB, carrying the still cameras, begin to snap pictures of children, who have now flocked around us. They crowd around to see their image appear on the LCD screen. Phoebe and I film the journalists taking the pictures. The whole production is a meditation on image creation. Who has the right to take these pictures? Do we, as white American filmmakers? Do they, as Dalit journalists? Is this exploitation? Is this representation?

A villager who Bhola knows gives a tour of the settlement, and we carefully manuever through the mud from last night’s and this morning’s rains. My boots submerge to the laces, Phoebe sinks to her ankles. We move slowly with the video cameras and the villagers find this hilarious. They point to the side of the path we should walk on, they offer their hands to help us through, they debate which way to take us, they watch our progress, they make side bets as to who will fall.

A woman wants to speak with us. She brings us to her house and tells us her husband has been killed by rebel fighters two months ago and her children are now working to support the family. She cannot find justice from the police. She speaks Madhesi, which Bhola and Dipendra translate into Nepali to JB, who translates into English to us. These translational hurdles are difficult for the details, but she could be speaking any language. I can see, hear and feel her pain.

We leave the settlement after a few more visits with villagers. By this hour, the sun has come out and the day has begun to get hot. We trek back through the mud out to the main road and sit in the shade of a large mango tree. Dipendra says buses pass by every ten or twenty minutes, so we won’t have to wait long. As I wait, I peel another mango.

a comfortable space

There aren’t any seats left on the bus to the Hetauda settlement, so Prakash and I sit in the aisle on bags of rice. This is a new experience not only for me, but for my fellow travelers who stare in unabashed curiosity. An old man comments I’m a real Nepali as he steps around me to get to his seat. A father who sits with his young son, offers me space. I smile and say “tikcha”, which means I’m fine. It seems to worry everyone that I’m traveling like this, like I deserve better than to sit in the aisle. Another man offers me his seat. I decline again. There are Nepalis traveling on the roof of this bus, I want to say. Why are you not offering them seats? A movie begins and diverts attention.

Kamala, the journalist we are visiting here, sits with Phoebe. She is young, maybe 23. Yesterday we taught her the basics of photography: how to focus, how to use aperture, how to think about composition and framing. The Canon XTi is cradled her lap, although she often brings it to her eye to look through the viewfinder and turn the focus ring. She’s never had the opportunity to use a camera before and makes no effort to conceal her excitement.

The bus drops us off on a sharp switchback and I watch it spurt off up the hill. Terraced patches of corn and eggplant stretch along the sides of the road. Small huts of red clay and stone hide among stalks. Once the sound of the bus’s belching fades, I hear the wind through the crops and distant water falling onto rocks. Soon, curious children and adults form a semicircle around us.

I try to place myself in their shoes. Buses and micros pass on these roads every day, but they rarely stop to drop anyone off. Visitors must be a unfamiliar sight, especially camera carrying white visitors. So why wouldn’t our presence merit a semicircle to form around us?

Kamala wants us to meet a 15-year-old girl who had experienced discrimination in her school. We walk to her hut, and our onlookers follow, talking amongst themselves. Her mother, thrilled Kamala has brought us to her house, sends for her daughter and turns back to us with a smile. After a moment, her daughter appears and nervously eyes the crowd behind us. Her mother prepares a straw mat for her to sit, we prep the camera, Kamala snaps pictures, Prakash explains the details of the documentary and the children push in closer to get a view through the Z1U’s LCD screen.

I am troubled with this setup. Kamala knows the girl well and coaxes her to tell us a little about herself, but she is uncomfortable. I am uncomfortable, too. We can’t show up with professional cameras and a crowd of onlookers and expect a child of 15 to open up to us. Phoebe walks off in frustration with the smaller A1U to try to lore some of the children away from me and the Z1U, but many remain. Some reach out to touch the LCD monitor and viewfinder.

I turn the camera off and tell Prakash this isn’t an ideal situation. He understands how important it is to create a comfortable space. He and Kamala are good at this, but we have not establish a trust with this girl and I do not want to continue filming. She is too young and I should know better. We put the cameras back in the bag and head up the mountain to another hut. The children look on in amusement.

for the perspectives they offer

I’m in a microbus with windows that slide open and my head is out in the cool air like a dog. The early evening sky is clear and the pictures I’m taking of the snowcapped Himalayas would look a lot better if our driver didn’t swerve so much. The road’s not paved and boulders the size of full grown cows (as well as full grown cows) often materialize in our path. I’m confident we’ll be fine: a laminated picture of Laxman, the Hindu god of good luck, covers our driver’s rear view mirror.

The mountain air tastes sweet at this speed. I no longer notice my own robust odor, or those of the other travelers. The Seti River, the churning brown water to my left, creates standing waves almost a meter tall. Phoebe comments on the rafting potential. I think of the hydroelectric potential. 

We had originally planned to be in Baglung longer than eight hours, but instead we are on our way back to Pokhara after a physically demanding day with Mahesh Kaita and Purna Bishwakarma. Prakash, his head on his bag in his lap, is exhausted. His eyes open only after we go over large bumps in the road. Phoebe’s legs ache and my left knee hurts. I wouldn’t think a day hike up and down a mountain is enough to cause me discomfort, but sitting inside this micro, I can feel the joint stiffen and swell. It’s impossible to stretch or straighten the leg, unless I place my foot on the shoulder of the gentlemen sitting across from me. I’d rather not encourage his curiosity, his constant eye contact is tiring already.

I wonder if those women, who greeted us with smiles and namastes on our hike up to the Dalit settlement this afternoon, have sore knees. Are they stretching their legs? They must have been fifty, maybe sixty years old. The rock staircase we met them on was too narrow for all of us and so they stepped aside as we continued up. “Ho, sure is steep,” one had offered with a smile. She was barefoot while the other two had plastic sandals. I wanted to ask if they had to climb the path often, but I knew the answer: it was the only way from the settlement to the town. If you lived at the settlement, you had to climb the path. An hour down, maybe an hour and a half up.

Mahesh had written an article about a Hindu temple where Dalits had been forbidden to enter only a few months back. In 1953, after Nepal became a democratic state and opened its doors to the world, untouchability became illegal. Perhaps within living memory for those women with the plastic sandals. But discrimination cases like the temple are common and local law enforcers rarely follow through with such cases. To bring their stories to journalists like Purna and Mahesh are often the only way Dalits can have any hope of justice. 

When we made it to the top, I rested underneath a huge bodhi tree. Purna and Mahesh spoke to a few women at a drinking well a few meters away and I looked out across the rolling foothills. I am drawn to mountains for the perspectives they offer: I climbed from there, I am now here, I need to be there. Had the women heard about the temple incident? Do they know who was involved and how it happened? Have they had any problems themselves?

The micro emerges from the twisted mountain road and speeds across flatter ground towards Pokhara. We should be there in less than an hour.