Yet Another Festival
Its said that every day somewhere in Nepal some ethnic group or other is having a festival. I was lucky enough to be in the far west of the country whenwoman were celebrating Teej, pronounced teach.
Shops close and after the obligatory worship, dancing takes place in the street and lasts long into the night. The woman (and this is specifically a woman’s event) will have fasted since midnight and will continue until the following morning, when devoted husbands will give them food. Other than weddings, these festivals are the only times for dressing up in the bright red saris. Tomorrow they will return to the daily grind of eking out a survival living from little plots of land, roadside teashops or cutting and carrying firewood. Festivals punch a bright red hole in substance living.

Ghats: Looking at Death

Yesterday was one of those special days for many devotees in this Hindu religious society. From early morning at the Pashupatinath (Pash Pattie) Temple they came to pour water from the river, scatter seeds around the temple grounds in the belief that the souls of the departed will receive salvation.

For at this temple every day the smoke of death can be seen. For here right in the heart of the city is its main cremation site and in keeping with tradition and belief right beside the river which eventually will wend its way to India and join with the great and holy Ganges. In fact it’s on the tourist trail. After the various temples and squares your taxi driver will take you here to see the body being placed on the pile of wood and the fire lit by the eldest son of the deceased. When the fire has consumed all then the ashes will be swept into the river for the long journey south.

By contrast in the west death is rarely spoken about and often hidden. Even spiritual conversation is viewed as not very PC. Perhaps its because in our materialist and individualist society we don’t want to be reminded that wealth, fame, possessions and education are for one life alone. Far too many of us do not have a faith to prepare us for death. In the Bible St. Paul says: “ Death has been swallowed up in victory. Where O death is your victory? Where O death is your sting?”

But in this society where faith is always nearer the surface we are reminded death is not the end. We need to put our trust in God not in ourselves.

Driving in the hills in the far west of Nepal.

The road is narrow and drops away steeply on one side. Winding where possible around the hills, but at times plunging into deep valleys only to rise again to 11 or 12,000ft.and into the mists and low cloud. It rained all night; a slow persistent cold rain, which, added to the monsoon a few months ago will mean the already loose slides, will have come down onto the road. We stop in a village beside a group of men huddled together drinking the hot sweet tea Nepali’s love. “Is the road open and will we get through?” we ask. They talk together occasionally pointing to our vehicle with their chins. “Yes, with your 4 wheel drive you will get through”.

More bends, more climbing then a few busses and trucks are parked, we tuck in behind. Sure enough a large landslide has all but closed the road. The drop to the river now brown coloured, evidence of slides further on is a good 1000ft.below. With others we tumble the manageable boulders over the edge. Occasionally a loose stone comes hurtling down from above. We clear a path just wide enough for a vehicle, its loose and bumpy; our driver is ready and accelerates through. It’s with thankfulness we climb aboard. Winding on hour after hour we pass lonely groups of houses, some serving tea and snacks, some much too close to the edge and are in danger of further slides. What kind of world economy is it that forces people to scratch out a living in situations like this?

Another landslide this time its loose sand and gravel that has blocked the road, huge pine trees lie on their side felled by the slide towards the river below. A bus is stuck in the middle. Some 30 people are pushing from behind, others are pulling on a rope tied to the front, and some are rocking the bus to help it grip the soft surface. In a cloud of black exhaust fumes it’s free. The ruts are filled in, and the now long queue of trucks and busses on either side gets moving again. We have been delayed a few hours but so what? For the people living in these remote regions where everything is brought in by road, a blocked road is more than an inconvenience; it’s a serious threat to their way of life. Perhaps later this week or next week the bulldozer will reach them. Until then this drive becomes a lot more dangerous. More rain is forecast.

It seems just another routine Wednesday morning. I am on my way to the domestic airport to catch a short flight to a District to participate in a workshop and meet a partner organisation. The huge snow-capped mountains always at their best at this time of year form an awesome semi-circular backdrop to the Kathmandu valley.

But out on the road there is an eerie feel, at ever junction and bridge groups of riot police are on duty. With their helmets, shields and metre long sticks they look ready for their business. Parked nearby are trucks full of armed police. The country faces another round of political street protest, blockades and the consequent shortages of essential items.

With food prices already rising beyond the reach of many due to world market forces and with all the other daily challenges facing the country, these good and kind people do not deserve a long winter of discontent.

We must re-double our efforts to talk our way out of these situations rather than make the people suffer.