Akuti
had her grumpy face on when I went down for tea this morning.
She
was sitting at the rough hewn wooden bench with her shoulders shrugged and her
arms crossed and her little bare feet were kicking the dust on the dirt floor
of the little hut we call our visitor centre.
Akuti
was pouting.
The
sun was just beginning to peek over the distant Himalaya Ganesh Mountain and it
washed everything in a pale orange glow. The air was very still and the only
sound I could hear was the distant rush of the river in the valley far below.
The monsoon rains have been heavy this year and the waterways are swollen.
I
caught a glimpse out the window of some movement amongst the lentil plants on
the terraces that are adjacent to the building. These giant steps had been
first carved out of the hillsides more than a thousand years ago.
Little
has changed in Katunge in ten centuries. It is one of the many things I love
about the place and why I keep coming back.
Say it
Kar-tun-jay.
Say it
loud.
Days
start very early up in the mountains of Nepal and the labour of survival is as
difficult as it is constant.
I
often have to remind myself of this when I am up here.
The
natural beauty of this country in the clouds easily shrouds the hardship that
the mountain people endure. The vista is stunning but growing the staples of
lentils and rice in such steep and rocky terrain is difficult.
Really
difficult.
The
village people toil hard to grow what they need to eat while they can. The
village is completed isolated for nine months of the year – first by the
monsoon rains and then by the winter snows.
There
are no supermarkets or grocery stores up here and even if there were – there is
no money to be spent on the packaged and processed foods we westerners take for
granted. Food is sparse and one meal a day is the norm.
Two in
a day is luxury.
“What’s up buttercup?” I asked of Akuti as I
squatted to turn on the ancient gas cylinder that fuelled the single burner in
our make shift kitchen.
“Boys are so mean” she replied.
“They are,” I agreed.
As I
poured some bottled water into the battered old copper kettle I patted little
Akuti on the head in sympathy. Then I sat down beside her and put an arm around
her shoulder and I gently brushed away some strands of her jet-black hair that
was stuck to her face. Tear tracks stained her little cheeks and I could feel
the protrusion of her ribs.
She is
such a tiny little thing.
Akuti
is nearly 8 years old but she is the size of a child half that age. Nepali
children are mostly undernourished and on all of the UNICEF indices they are
below average. Birth weight, life expectancy, literacy and other critical
developmental levels are low - but their willpower and determination are not.
These
are brave and wonderful children born into adversity and they fight for
survival every day.
The
name ‘Akuti’ translates into ‘Princess’ in the English language and it is very
befitting.
She is
my little princess.
I have
known Akuti since she was 3 years old. Her mother Mohini died in labour giving
birth to Akuti’s little brother. Akuti lost both her mother and her sibling on
that dark night.
I was
somewhere in Australia when that happened and I did not hear about it until a
fortnight later.
My
grief was deep and profound and I recall feeling like I was standing alone in a
dark and desolate forest of sorrow.
Grief
is the price we must all pay for loss.
It’s
link and fusion to love and joy is requisite – for without love there can be no
grief. These powerful emotions are intertwined.
Mohini
means “very beautiful” in Nepali and Akuti’s mother was.
Very
beautiful.
“So which boy has been mean to you little
princess?” I
asked.
“Shardul. He pulled my hair and he called
me a rude name”
Shardul
is one of Akuti’s many cousins – I think from her mother’s side of the family.
He is twelve or thirteen years old and his father is one of the elders of
Katunge. By ‘elders’ I mean a sort of a council they have for the village and
the surrounding areas. They collectively make decisions on behalf of the
community and I have been dealing with them for a long time now.
Nepalese
village communities are very close and it is a part of their nature to look
after each other. If an earthquake or a mudslide damages a house or the crops
of one family fail, the community will look after them. The elders will convene
and muster assistance and their word is their bond. Communal law has governed
Nepali rural communities for many thousands of years and the process of justice
is a simple and natural one.
Elders
will on occasion determine marriages between children and they will settle
disputes over property and land. Men like Shardul’s father will decide what
animals should be sacrificed for the different festivals that occur in the
Hindu calendar and which monks and holy men should be invited to bless the
planting of harvests.
It was
a long and difficult negotiation for us with the village elders to convince
them to let us build more schools and for the kids to be able to go to classes.
During harvest time in particular all hands are required to bring in the crops
and many parents need their children to manage the workload. We brought up –
and still bring up - volunteers to help with the harvests so the children can
attend classes and it was only by the Elder’s decree that this happened.
They wisely
took a long-term view that an educated child could get work as a teacher or an
engineer or a doctor and that would be of more benefit to the families and the
village as a whole. Such things are beginning to happen now.
Dreams
are coming true.
However
during the harvest season a lot of children still walk two hours to get to
school for the early morning classes then they walk two hours back to their
farms to help pick crops. Many will then do another two-hour walk back to
school for afternoon classes then two hours back again to get home.
Eight
hours of steep walking in a day to get an education and to help their families
put food on the table.
I
think this is as wonderful as it is remarkable.
There
is no gender equality in the Himalaya villages - however the womenfolk of the
mountains are tough and smart and decisive and their ability to sway men is
indisputable. In many of the households that I know in Katunge the mothers and
wives are the backbone of the family unit and the young girls and women of
Nepal are coming of age as they receive more formal education and opportunity.
One of
the principal objectives of the little Foundation in which I am involved is to
create more educational opportunities for Nepalese girls from remote
communities.
Their
thirst for knowledge is insatiable.
Their
potential is enormous.
‘Shardul’
translates to ‘tiger’ in Nepalese. When the Saxons of Europe were constructing
houses of wood and straw the Nepali Kingdom was mighty and the stone palaces of
the Kingdom were elaborate and glorious. The Kings of ancient Kathmandu kept
tigers for pets and they hunted rhinoceros through thick lush jungles. Surdu –
the holy men of the Hindi faith - wrote great works of philosophy in Sanskrit
and they built great temples that survive even to this day.
I
stood and heaped a couple of spoonful of coarse Nepali tea and added a pinch of
masala into the battered pot. Then I poured the now boiling water over the top.
The aroma was instant and delicious. I pulled two bashed up tin cups from the
kitchen shelf then I sat again next to Akuti and she wrapped her frail little
arms around me.
Whilst
I waited for the tea to seep I asked Akuti why Shardul pulled her hair and
called her a rude name.
“Because I let Jalaja wear his shoes,” she replied.
Jalaja
is Akuti’s older sister. She is about the same age as Shardul.
Jalaja
is another name for a lotus flower in Nepalese.
The
lotus is a very special plant to both Hindus and Buddhists – but particularly
to Buddhists.
The lord Buddha was born in Nepal and he died in India. It is
taught that he was born as a grown child and as he took seven first steps -
seven lotus flowers bloomed from each of his footfall.
I think this is quite beautiful
I really do.
Shoes are precious items in the mountains - and it is not at all
uncommon for families to share a pair amongst a cluster of children. It is the
same with clothes. A pair of pants and a jumper will last for several
generations of a family for there is little money to be spent on such things
and children are taught to share.
It took me quite some time to come to terms with the frugality
that is necessary for survival in the mountains and it has taught me great
humility and appreciation for what I have. I have taken both my children to the
mountain villages to see for themselves how ‘the other half’ live and I am as
proud as I am delighted at the empathy my children displayed.
Without me having to ask, both my son and my daughter left
behind all of their clothes and shoes and possessions for the mountain children
and they constantly send over more to their Himalayan friends.
Humility is something that can’t really be taught and it needs
to be awakened through experience.
Nepal always knocks the petty completely out of Peter.
It returns of course when I return to my western world and my
western ways but it doesn’t take much for me to take what I have for granted
anymore. When my children or their cousins start to moan or complain about
something trite and material all I need to do is to whisper a Nepalese name for
them to stop.
They then look within themselves.
They remember their friends in the mountains who have nothing
and their diminutive complaints dissolve away.
“Ah Akuti” I said in my
most sympathetic voice.
“Was it Shardul’s turn to
wear the shoes?”
“Yes but Jalaja had to walk
to Dhading for some medicine and Shardul was just being mean” she replied.
Tears were welling up again.
“He shouldn’t pull your
hair or call you names though,” I agreed.
“Do you want me to hold him
down while we tickle him to tears as a punishment?” I asked.
Her little face brightened at the prospect.
“Yes I do” she giggled.
“Then tickle him we shall,” I declared.
I poured our tea then and we walked out and sat on the little
wall that looks over the Annapurna ranges and together we watched the sun rise
fully.
Despite seeing the vista so many times now the sheer beauty and
tranquility of the view still takes my breath away.
Many of the children will start arriving at the Visitor’s Centre
soon but I will wait until they all get here before I hand out the shoes we had
gathered together from donors in Hong Kong and Singapore.
I bought more than a hundred and twenty pairs with me this trip -
so Akuti and Shardul and Jalaja will have their very own.
I will still have to hold Shardul down so Akuti will be able to
give him a big tickle though. It is an appropriate enough lesson not to pull
his cousin’s hair or to call her rude names - and we will all end up laughing.
Happiness and laughter is the main thing.
It is the only thing really.
The sound of laughter echoing down a Himalayan valley is a
beautiful sound indeed.
It makes my heart sing.
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