The streets are abuzz these days. Tomorrow is the so-called "local elections," essentially where people run for district- and municipality-level political positions, rather than federal government positions. Every day, small groups of flag-waving campaigners parade through the neighborhoods, stopping at intersections to bang drums and cymbals and hand out flyers. Unlike when Nepal elected its first woman president and nobody seemed terribly interested, people are showing a lot of enthusiasm for this election. In a way, it's the opposite of American politics. In the US, people are thoroughly engaged - nay, obsessed - with the presidential campaigns, yet often unaware of local and state governments. In Nepal, many people (particularly the 28 million people who live outside of Kathmandu) feel that the federal government is too much of a bubble, too removed from how the vast majority of Nepal lives and functions. Instead, non-Kathmandu Nepalis recognize and are enthusiastic about the importance of their local government and representatives.
And so, from midnight on Thursday to midnight on Friday, the entire country will shut down. No vehicles will be allowed to move anywhere, not private, not public (but maybe press and politicians?). There will be no selling of alcohol, no attending school, no working at the office. Vegetable shops and pharmacies will stay open, and perhaps no one will regulate the men who sell things from their bicycles, but otherwise the country will be on hold so people can vote. Many people exited Kathmandu over the past few days to return to their hometowns and cast a vote.
As of yesterday, I was supposed to be in Nalma. I had hoped to arrive a few days before the elections so I could observe how it works in a village setting. Also, the ghatu festival begins almost immediately after election day, so I wanted to ensure there wouldn't be a rush getting there. But alas, Raju dai and Bauju who are hosting me in Nalma requested that we delay our arrival until after the elections, because it is simply too crowded in the village at the moment. They want to be able to host us properly, and Raju dai is running for Municipality Chair, so he's a bit busy at the moment.
This delay left me with a few unexpected free days in Kathmandu. Naturally, I joined a cycle tour of the city that brought us to several art galleries. I fell in love with a stunning work that would look perfect in my living room and only costs 150,000 NR (and my birthday is just seven months away!). Then I went to visit the Rato Machindranath. This is a 60-foot tall chariot carrying an idol of Bunga Dyah, the giver of rain, which some sources say also honors Avalokitesvara, the Vajrayani Buddhism deity of compassion, and is an incarnation of Shiva for Hindus. In the picture below, the chariot in the background is the Rato Machindranath, and the one in the foreground is the Chakuwa Dyah that accompanies the larger one.
Over two weeks, the chariot is constructed entirely by hand, using all local and natural materials, by the Jyapu (farmer) caste within the Patan Newar community. (For context, the Newars are the indigenous people of the Kathmandu Valley, and Patan is one of the three ancient kingdoms of the Kathmandu Valley.) To my knowledge, they have been constructing the chariot in the same way, with the same materials, taken from the same parts of the same forests, since the festival began around 650 AD. I have heard that in recent years, they have needed to find other kinds of natural materials and to look in other areas because deforestation and climate change have made these resources more scarce.
I have seen this festival so many times, but always by accident on my way home from work. For many years I lived near or in the neighborhood where the chariot is made and pulled, and I mostly took it for granted that it happened. I even found it quite annoying for a few years, since they would cut the power lines that crossed the chariot's path and then I wouldn't be able to work or have lights in my apartment. Now I live on the other side of town, and for the last week I've felt a strange sadness at not having seen it yet.
So this year, for the first time, I intentionally went looking for it. I called my sister for a chat, locked up my bike, and started walking in the direction it was likely to be. After forty minutes when I still had not stumbled across the sixty-foot chariot and the thousand-person crowd that was sure to be there, I asked yet another woman where I could find the Machindranath. She laughed and told me it was in Lagankhel - the street parallel to the one I'd been wandering down. I took a sharp turn and carried my sister away from Patan Durbar Square where they are still reconstructing the palace after the earthquake; we headed toward the street with the fancy clothing stores, and as the crowd thickened I knew we were close.
Visiting the Machindranath is a religious practice just as much as it is a chance to revel and drink and dance. Several competing marching bands kept the crowd cheering and dancing, and the closer I got to the chariot, the more alcohol I smelled on the breath of the young men in the crowd. This is typical for chariot festivals in Nepal, and these intoxicated young men are generally the ones who pull the chariot. It's unbelievably heavy, and it moves just a few meters at a time, just a few dozen meters per day. Sometimes it leaves divots in the road if the pitch was laid recently enough. One never knows when the chariot will move, and the crowd goes crazy every time it does.
Once the chariot had stopped moving for the day, the crowd started to disperse. The marching bands chanted and clanged their way back from wherever they came. Some folks came up close to offer food to the god at the front of the chariot. I packed up and headed toward my quiet apartment near the embassies, where there is no religious revelry but the political protests happen.
Kathmandu, you have my heart.
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