Americans have fat hands and I must love dogs.



Our language teacher, Prava, writing in Devanagari.

Since returning from Gorkha last week a lot has happened. I am now capable of maintaining a delightful conversation with a taxi driver including who I am, what I’m doing in Nepal, and a brief description of my family back in America. Depending on his ability to throw in a little bit of English occasionally, I can also competently respond to other random queries, no one says questions here, or ask about his life/family. I am slowly mastering the many consonants, half consonants, vowels, and symbolic vowels of Devanagari. Unfortunately I read so slowly that I can only decipher signs when I am stuck in dense traffic; simply called a jam. 

Some of the ETAs during language class in the Fulbright office.

 

My wardrobe has expanded significantly, and I’m growing concerned that I won’t be able to fit everything into my suitcase when I move to my host family’s house (gaur) in ten days. I may have to resort to my airplane strategy of wearing everything I own rather than packing it. Oh well, the kurta suruwals and other items are well worth it.

 

 

My wonderful tailor, Shanti.

Bangles are another customary fashion statement for women in Nepal, especially as we approach the festival of tij at the end of August. Unfortunately, Americans have thulo thulo haat (really really big hands) and getting the tiny plastic bracelets over so many giant knuckles can be a challenge. Some quick tips if you ever encounter this problem:

1.       Whatever you do, do NOT try to use the hand you are putting the bracelets on to help the process. Keep this hand/arm as relaxed as possible.

2.       Consider holding the arm awaiting bangles straight up in the air in order to drain the blood out of it prior to attempting to put them on.

3.       Lotion and/or soap will make the impossible suddenly seem possible.

4.       If all else fails, surrender your arm to two kind and determined saleswomen so that one can use both hands to squish your fingers together while the other expertly guides the bangles over your extraordinarily fat American hands.

In the end the bangles look lovely, and the green and yellow colors are supposed to help me attract a suitable husband and a prosperous life!

 

Sparkly and glamorous.

 

I actually happened upon this particular bangle shop completely by accident. I had started out on a mission to explore the rest of the neighborhood, beyond the road where we turn to reach the apartment. Rumor has it there is a large community forest over there where “everyone” goes to walk in the morning that we had no idea even existed. Upon rounding the corner I did discover an elegant stone stairway leading up to a large gate. I assumed that I would not be able to enter, but had hoped to climb the staircase and find a nice spot near the top to sit, journal, and study Nepali. When I suddenly found myself trapped in a memory from Cameroon… alone, on the street, being aggressively pursued by street dogs.

I clearly just emanate fear of dogs so strongly that they can’t help but come running (although this is the first time I have had any real trouble and there have been LOTS of dogs around.) Anyways, I was standing in the middle of the street trying to shoo them away, yelling no, and using my shopping bag as a kind of shield. The dogs were alarmingly persistent twice they jumped up and snapped at my arms. Fortunately none of these dogs were clever enough to take a hunk out of my leg like their Cameroonian cousin. I stared hopelessly at a nearby group of people, whose eyes seemed to express sympathy, but they took no action. I ended up walking over and positioning myself between two of the men; naturally my canine groupies followed, but now that the dogs had infringed upon their personal space the bystanders were more motivated to get involved. After a good kick, some thrown water, and two guys aggressively running towards the dogs waving their arms like they were going to throw rocks… the dogs slunk away.

I stalled by having a pleasant conversation with the man next to me about the temple at the top of the stairs across the road while I waited to make sure the dogs were really gone. Then I continued walking and hoped that by the time I turned around to go home the dogs would have escaped to India or been sat on by a cow roaming the streets nearby.

Thankfully, I am writing this from the safety of my own dog-free apartment not from an emergency room waiting to explain to the doctors that I have already had the full series of rabies shots in another country. Then again, collecting a scar from a street dog in every country I visit would make for a one-of-a-kind souvenir.