That night, we walked to the neighboring resort to watch a Tharu culture show. Most featured stick dancing, where they dance in a circle to drums and bang sticks together in time with the music. It bordered on a martial art, each person hitting sticks with their two neighbors. First, there was a single long stick, followed by dancing with two shorter sticks, which was more spectacular. The performance was interesting if unprofessional. In the hands of more skilled dancers, this could be an impressive feat of coordination. As it was, it was still impressive and interesting. For the final dance, they invited people from the crowd to join, and I was one of them of course. As if I would just sit and watch. This dance however, thankfully, did not feature sticks. It was still a workout and quite fun to join a dance I didn't know. I just followed the man in front of me and mimicked his movements as much as possible. I guess watching foreigners embarrassingly stumble through this is part of the charm.
My next morning started with an elephant ride. I was disappointing to learn that breakfast was after the ride. But after it started, I realized this was for the better; riding an elephant is not a smooth, comfortable ride, each step rocking the platform on their backs around. We loaded on from a laddered platform, though the driver who sits on the more peaceful next, had an elevator up. He taped the elephants head, cuing it lower its trunk and lift him to the back.
The ride was not actually in the nation park, but in a community forest on the outskirts. These forests still have ample wildlife. I was a bit annoyed by the trip. I imagined a peaceful stroll through the morning jungle, riding on a moving raised platform. Instead, I shared my ride with a Nepali couple who talked the whole time, oblivious to the concept of natural serenity. These are always the same types of people who complain about never seeing any wildlife. Alas, we were still able to see a few barking deer, sleeping under trees. When they noticed us, they did not flee, seeming more confused by the random people on the elephant instead of scared. I must admit that the ride was still pleasant. Plus, I can't think I'd bee riding anymore elephants much in my life.
I was not impressed by the treatment of the elephants. The drivers all had bamboo sticks which they tapped on the sides of the elephant's heads to steer them. Sometimes, when they reacted too slowly, our driver would slap the elephant very hardly, prompting an uncomfortable scream in pain. I don't much agree with whipping animals, especially when they are not being noncompliant. This would not be the most uncomfortable moment of the day.
That afternoon, my guide defied the wishes of his boss, taking me to his home instead of the original "authentic" Tharu village tour from the package. Along the way, we bumped into his brother, home for a few weeks from his gas pumping job in Dubai. Like his younger brother, he worked as a park guide for a while. We all sat down for a chat at the school yard.
His brother was dressed in a designer t-shirt with fashionable jeans, his hair carefully styled. When he walked, he strutted like a mafioso.
"So, I have a question." he asked in the shade of a lonely sal tree.
"Ok."
"So, how much you make in the USA?"
"Oh, well, I am a waiter, so I don't make too much."
"How much, one day?"
Whenever a Nepali asked about my income, I had to fight a strong desire to lie. "Maybe 7000 rupees one day."
"You know how much money my little brother make?"
I shook my head. Bhutwan sat quietly, shyly.
"He make 4000 rupees."
"Ok."
"In one month!"
I sat agape. Bhutwan worked nearly every day, sometimes for the whole day and only made $50 a month. "Wow. That's no good."
"No good, my friend."
I tried not to think that I had three months of his wages sitting in my wallet, maybe enough money for me to live for the next ten day in Nepal.
"In Dubai, much better. I make 20,000 rupees in one month, maybe more with tips. Now I can save much money. Some I send to my family."
While speaking, three of the village children ran up to him, smiling. He looked back and opened his wallet, giving five rupees to each child. They immediately ran away.
"I remember my older brother, he work in Australia for one year. I was a child. HE came back for a festival and gave me 150 rupees. I was rich! So now, I make the children happy."
A minute later, the more children, hearing of his benevolent charity came to him, expecting money.
"Many people in village, they go to USA, they go to Quatar, Dubai to work. My brother have good jobs. Others in village, they work on farm, they make 1000 rupees in a month." This was my daily allowance, an easy hour of work for me back at home.
"How much can you save in one month, in USA?"
Another question I was uncomfortable answering. Though I have a reletively low paying job by US standards, I have a particular knack for saving money. I delicately explained my lack of materialism, my extremely modest lifestyle and how I can save $1000 am month with little difficulty.
"See, I want to work in other country one year, two years, and save a lot of money, then build a hotel. I have land from my grandpa already, so not too difficult. Can I save $5000 in USA in one year?"
"This is possible, but you have to live simple life, no TV, no cigarettes, only a little beer. You have to cook your own food."
"This is ok." Three more kids broke the short silence and he gave them 20 rupees, instructing them to share.
After they left. "Australia is better for saving money dude. Life is cheaper, you can find better pay, but the work is often very hard." I explained. "Plus, it's closer, the flights are less."
"How much can I save?"
Halfway through the details, an American hip-hop songs started playing and he removed his fancy phone, though not an internet phone (it was still more advanced than mine at home)and answered. He put on his little headphones and waved goodbye.
Bhutwan who had said not a word the whole time, finally spoke, "money is too important for my brother. Money is not so important."
"As long as you have food, a place to sleep, and good people in your life, money is nothing."
"With family, you are more rich. So, we go to my home, we have raksi and dal bhat from my mother."
His home was only a short walk away. We entered a dirt yard, crowded with ducks and chickens. I was beckoned to sit on a bench in front, with a bamboo mat reserved for company.
"Now my mother she make dal bhat."
We sat, watching the birds, every few moments, an uncle, brother, or other family member would pass in their work, harvesting the rice, trying to finish as much as possible before the looming darkness set.
"You like my home?" Bhutwan asked.
I looked around the humble, bare yard. There wasn't too much there but the feeling of lingering peace that only a happy family can create. "Yeah, it's nice. Very relaxing."
"Yes, I think it is good too." He said, beaming.
It was then that his mother, appearing much younger than her 48 years of age, came out and invited us inside for dinner. The inside was even more humble than the yard. We moved the bamboo mat to the ground inside and sat cross-legged upon it. The kitchen was a small gas stove in the back right corner. Five beds were placed around the house, which in total,the size of my living room back home.
"Which is your bed?" I asked.
"Ah, this one." he said, patting the one right behind us. Two others, one behind and one at its foot were all cluttered together in a big mas. There was a small partition on the opposite side of the room with a curtain, separating the stove from the two other beds.
"So your sister and your mother sleep there?" I pointed to the separate "room".
"Yes, women there."
His mother came in scooping a giant mount of rice onto a plate and gave it to me with a bowl of dal. Next was a pitcher of water and a tray over which we washed our hands. Finally a large helping of cooked leafy vegetables, saag, was scooped on top of the rice. There was of course no silverware. I was glad I'd already broken into hand eating two nights before.
"I'm not so good at eating with my hands."
"No, you do good."
A pile of rice was forming on my lap and on the ground around me. There was no table to lift the food closer to my mouth.
"I'm making a bad mess."
"It is ok."
The food was good, but simple, the main seasoning was simple salt. After an extra helping of dal and saag, I was getting very full. Also, it was the type of meal that gets more difficult to choke down with each successive bite. Good, but bland food at some point always get rejected by my body. I was unable to finish my plate.
"I can't finish my plate."
"It is ok."
"But I feel bad. I want to finish. I don't want to be impolite to your mother."
"It is ok."
"Sure?"
"Yes."
His mother cleared our plates and poured me a giant glass of her homemade raksi. It was delicious, some of the best I'd had, but hard, almost more of a spirit than a wine. There was only one glass.
"Aren't you having any?" I asked.
"My mother doesn't know I drink. She don't drink either, so I no tell her I drink."
"She makes one hell of a raksi for somebody who does't drink."
"You like?" Bhutwan asked.
"Yeah, it's great. Strong, but delicious."
I sat there and sipped on the raksi, getting a little buzzed while silently listening to the Nepali music on the radio. I looked around, hearing the sad love songs, and realized the radio was the nicest thing they owned. I had many similar radios wasting away in my closet. The family did seem happy with the literal nothing material they owned. The was decorated with an old broken plow. The dirt floor was immaculately swept, except for the pile of rice on the ground before me.
"You are very quiet. What are you thinking?" Bhutwan broke the silence.
"Oh nothing specific. I'm always thinking about something." I figured I should offer something to her mother for her hospitality. For this family, offering me a meal was quite the charity. "Should I offer your mother money for the food?"
"Oh no! It is ok."
"You sure."
"It is ok."
I left humbled. How could I in my life ever again think I had nothing? My backpack had more luxuries than this entire family of six. To think if I gave only $15 to a person in this village, I would double their income. I vowed to stop thinking so much about my own money, because by the world's standards, I was quite wealthy.
We walked back to the hotel where I had a second dinner waiting for me; it was included in my package. I forced it down guiltily. My plate had more variety than the locals get throughout the year. While eating, the manager sat down with me to discuss the next day.
"Tomorrow, you go back to Kathmandu?
"That was my plan."
"The bus leaves at 9:30 and will cost 500 rupees."
"Oh, my bus to Kathmandu is included."
"No, it's separate."
"The agent in Lumbini told me it was included."
"No, you have to buy."
"Ok, sir, when he told me the price, which was high."
"Oh, price is not so high."
"No, this tour is no better than any of the many others offered by the hotels here. I talk to people. I do my research. Some people pay 5000 rupees. I even found a package for 4000. When the guy in Lumbini told me 6000 rupees, I said it was too high, so he included transport back to Kathmandu in my package."
"Impossible. You have to pay 500 rupees." This was a rippoff, I knew.
"Fine then. If I have to pay, then I'll take the local bus."
He was taken aback by my shift by countered, "Local bus is no good, so crowded."
"I like the local bus, I've taken it many times. You meet people and have fun. Tourist buses are overpriced and boring. I just go from Tandi bazaar then I can find a bus back to Kathmandu, it's very simple."
"Jeep to Tandi is 400 rupees."
"400 rupees?"
"Yes."
It is difficult to not get angry when someone is looking you in the eyes and blatantly telling a lie,but then I remembered my vow from earlier in the evening and remained calm. The tourist bus would only be a few dollars more, so I let it go.
"Fine then, I'll take the tourist bus."
I left with Bhutwan towards the village for some raksi. He had heard most of our conversation. "How much did he charge you for bus?"
"500."
"500! The bus only cost maybe 300 maximum. He overcharge. I do not like this man. Alway cheating cheating."
"I knew he was lying, but it's only a little money."
"Money is too important for him, always cheating."
"I could have gotten angry and yell, but this makes me a bad man, like him. I stay calm, everything shanti shanti; you know. I will not be the bad man. Him, if he want to be bad, then he have bad karma you know. I want good karma."
"Yes."
We stopped by a little restaurant that sold raksi for 50 a bottle. The raksi was ok and we drank it with some fried buffalo choela. With us was a young British tattoo artist who was traveling around Nepal, offering her services to various parlors in exchange for food and lodging. She wasn't bad from the photos she showed. I played some Radiohead, who we both shared as our favorite band, while playing with the didi's child. It was a happy night until I got the bill. By bottle, the woman meant a small glass. The wine and the meat cost a total of 350 rupees, enough for a great meal at a high end restaurant.
"I can't believe she charge 350!" said Bhutwan after leaving.
"Yeah, that's ridiculous! It wasn't even very good."
We complained to each other about the price the whole way back to hotel.
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