Here I Yam: Wet Hot Arghakhanchi Summer

It's been a harrowing few weeks. Well, that might be too dramatic. I'll come in a bit from the extreme and say it's been a trying few weeks. I've often heard Peace Corps service likened to a wave: emotions rising and falling, high highs and low lows. To extend the analogy, July was the first true trough that I've experienced. Nothing major, but a series of little annoyances that compounded into a less-than-positive month. And, admittedly, worsened by some of my own personality shortcomings. I'll try to explain this series of events in this post.

Monsoon season: 10 minutes before I got absolutely soaked

Even more than tigers and leopards and monkeys, I've come to fear a smaller creature: the moth. One day early in July, I was sweeping my room and noticed a dead moth by my door. I swept it into the dustbin and took it outside, when my host brother stopped me and said, "don't touch, moths will cause blindness." I've received an abundance of dubious folk medical advice during my time in Nepal (e.g., sitting on cold surfaces will cause diarrhea), so I didn't make much of this comment. Later, during a lull in the day, I decided to find out the origin of this warning. Could it have any basis in reality? What I found sent me into a weeklong hypochondriac's nightmare.

The opening sentences of a page on Eye Health Nepal were enough to make me break into a cold sweat: Seasonal hyperacute panuveitis (SHAPU) is a mysterious eye disease seen and reported only in Nepal since 1975. It is the most devastating intraocular inflammatory disease which leads to a loss of sight within a week and, in many cases, disfigurement later. Most data on etiology rely on contact history with a suspected agent (moths).

In times of crisis, real or imagined, I like to collect all the data I can. So I took a deep breath and read on. By the end of the article, my fear was somewhat abated. Apparently, SHAPU is mostly prevalent among children, the causal agent is a specific genus of moths (Gazalina), and it typically presents at the end of monsoon season (August/September). And, I had to keep reminding myself, I didn't actually touch the dead moth or rub my eyes! There was no real chance I had SHAPU. Still, for an entire week I was convinced that my vision was a little blurry and shadowed. Weeks later, I'm happy to report I still have my eyesight. Nevertheless, this little episode was an inauspicious beginning to the month.

The culprit. Image source here

I returned to my site in Arghakhanchi in the midst of the rice planting season. My host family had planted their own fields while I was away in Kathmandu for training, but a few of our neighbors were still at it. One morning, my host brother informed me he was going to help out another family in our village and drove off on his motorbike. I wasn't invited and I, like most people, prefer not to go where I'm unwanted. But I decided to tag along anyway, as here was an opportunity to get into the fields. I knew roughly where I was going and set off on foot, stopping at one house to ask for directions.

I arrived and was quickly put to work. The division of labor in rice paddy establishment is gendered: men are responsible for the terracing, earthworks, and tilling (they grabbed both tails of the oxen and rode the plow like a surfboard), while women handle the planting. Unsurprisingly, men are paid more for their labor, as their tasks are deemed harder. I have to admit that, despite the fun I had, I don't have an aptitude for planting. I was slow to the point of detriment to the other women, and so I decided to stick to the periphery of the terrace to get out of their way.

When the day was over and it was time to return home, I said I was okay going alone (after all, I got to the fields in one piece by myself), but my host brother insisted I be accompanied. So he sent me home with a 9 year old boy as my companion. Here, my mood soured: (a) it was a tad insulting that they thought a child would protect and guide me in ways I couldn't manage myself, and (b) it was all so paternalistic that, despite my wishes, my host brother insisted he knew best. (As an aside, I've noticed my host brother lapsing into his whisper voice that he uses to speak to his children when he speaks to me now.).

One of the biggest hurdles for me in Nepal is the lack of autonomy. I'm independent to a fault; it's been a challenge integrating into a community that can't fathom going anywhere or doing anything alone. I'm the village maverick. Most everything I do provokes comment. Going on solo walks is probably the most shocking behavior I engage in, and, without fail, I'm met with surprise every time anyone sees that I'm alone. Or maybe they're just surprised when we cross on jungle paths and I'm wearing a black t-shirt and grey cargo pants. I look like the Grim Reaper in a place where the women wear vibrant pinks, reds, and greens. Time for me to introduce some color into my wardrobe.

As I write this out, I can't help but feel that I'm coming across as histrionic and whiny. Taken out of the moment, it does seem like I'm overreacting to a big nothingburger. I feel silly trying to explain how these small moments wedge themselves into my brain as attacks on my competence and independence. But I think my fellow volunteers will understand what I'm trying to say.

A long walk down: rice paddies in middleground

My last anecdote is more tragicomic than anything. When I arrived at my site in April, I was quickly enamored with my neighbor's goats. They were playful and dopey and inseparable, so in my mind, I started referring to them as Gretchen and Lili after my sister and me. This was definitely a mistake, given the inevitable, violent end to a goat's life in Nepal. But I wasn't prepared for it to happen so soon. Last week, they slaughtered Lili!

I was spared from seeing the killing blow, but I went over to watch the post-slaughter preparations. So, here's how to dress a goat à la Nepali:

(1) Get a goat and kill it via khukuri to the neck. I haven't seen this part, and I'm glad for it.

(2) Douse the carcass in boiling water, using stainless steel tea cups (the ones we drink tea from) to remove the fur. Meanwhile, scorch the head in fire to burn off the hair.

(3) Go in with razor blades for an even closer shave.

(4) Cover the carcass with a tumeric and ash paste (for flavor and anti-microbial properties).

(5) Slice off the limbs and cut open the stomach to remove the organs.

(6) I left for this step, but I assume organs were cleaned, further processed, and chopped into smaller pieces.

(7) Weigh out portions and hand them off to neighbors and family.

(8) Cook the meat with fennel, bay leaves, cumin, & black pepper.

And voilà, dinner is ready. At site, I'm a pescatarian because I'm much too picky with meat. It was easier to give it up than have this difficult and ridiculous conversation with my family: "Hey Didi, I don't like the goat intestine. Do you happen to have chicken breast for me instead?" So, I didn't get the chance to try Lili, but I have no doubt she was delicious.

As you can see, I'm being a little dramatic calling July a trying month. If this is all I have to complain about, then maybe I should dedicate my time to being more grateful instead of writing a screed. I think it boils down to this: July 19th marked 6 months in Nepal. The honeymoon phase has come to an end, and I'm experiencing some settling-in pains as I face the day-to-day realities of the next 20 months of my service.

Let's finish off the post with a positive experience from this month: my host family bought a pregnant water buffalo, and she's expected to calf in a few days. I'm looking forward to having a supply of fresh milk for my tea and a new baby around the house!

That's all. Thanks for reading.