economic scale are often dark-skinned. Complexion is important to social hierarchy in Nepal; it is not uncommon for a light-skinned Nepali to add a “Complexion” line to their résumé. It is a global phenomenon, this judgment of others by skin color, of course. But in Nepal, these men rummaging through the trash next to the Ring Road are undone by much more than just their skin tone. Their fate had been cemented at birth when they were born into the lowest caste of Nepalese society.
The caste system so dramatically displayed on the Ring Road is the formalized division of social stratification on the subcontinent. Even in Godawari, I often saw manifestations of the caste system. The larger, well-built mud homes typically belonged to the higher-caste residents, the Brahmins. Those belonging to other high-ranking castes often mentioned it without the slightest self-consciousness.
Even the local English-language newspaper adhered to the rigidity of the caste system. In place of weekend personal ads, they had what they called “matrimonials.” As the name suggested, men, and occasionally women, sought spouses. Men were seeking, invariably, an olive-skinned, “homely” woman from a good family. In the same way personal ads in America might be divided between men seeking women and men seeking men, matrimonial ads in Nepal are broken down by caste.
The Dalits are the lowest caste. From the window of my bus, I saw Dalits living on the side of the polluted Ring Road. They are unofficially banned from places we took for granted—barber shops, tea shops, and restaurants. So they set up a small mirror on the trunk of a tree, place a wooden stool next to it, and this serves as a barber shop. I watched other men come around selling them glasses of dud chyiaa (milk tea) from a makeshift cup-holder. They created their own parallel lives, outside, among their own. It had been this way for their fathers and their fathers before that. But to me, it was infuriatingly unjust. I tried to accept Nepal exactly as it was; I told myself that cultures should be treated equally, that my own culture is terribly flawed and would appear even more so, I imagined, to outsiders. But I grew to despise the caste system during those long bus rides around the Ring Road, and that feeling has never left me.
O ne evening, after the children had gone to bed, Sandra told us that she would be leaving for a while. She was heading out of the Kathmandu Valley to go trekking near Rara Lake in a region called Mugu.
“Which is where, exactly?” asked Chris.
“Western Nepal. Rara Lake—it’s a trekking route, but nobody goes anymore because it is far from tourist routes, and because of the Maoists. But I found a guide who will take me!” She was giddy with excitement. Sandra was an avid hiker and mountain climber—this sounded like exactly her kind of adventure.
“And you’re not worried?” I asked.
“About what?”
“I don’t know—Maoists?”
I didn’t know much about the civil war, but what I did know worried me. In early 1996, the Maoist Party—an extreme Communist wing—had launched an insurgency. Their objective was to end the 250-year “feudal” rule of the monarchy. For the first several years, the uprising was considered a police matter—a series of scuffles in remote villages. But the rebel army expanded its ranks, first with men, then women, then children.
With their growing numbers and no effective counterforce, the rebel army grew stronger. Villages, then districts, then entire regions fell under Maoist control. In 2002 the Maoists dragged the Royal Nepalese Army into the conflict overnight with the bombing of an army barracks in western Nepal. Soon the Maoists controlled virtually the entire country, save the largest urban centers and the Kathmandu Valley. We were told again and again that it was simply not safe to travel in Maoist-controlled territory. Sandra’s destination, Rara Lake, was in Maoist territory.
“It will
The caste system so dramatically displayed on the Ring Road is the formalized division of social stratification on the subcontinent. Even in Godawari, I often saw manifestations of the caste system. The larger, well-built mud homes typically belonged to the higher-caste residents, the Brahmins. Those belonging to other high-ranking castes often mentioned it without the slightest self-consciousness.
Even the local English-language newspaper adhered to the rigidity of the caste system. In place of weekend personal ads, they had what they called “matrimonials.” As the name suggested, men, and occasionally women, sought spouses. Men were seeking, invariably, an olive-skinned, “homely” woman from a good family. In the same way personal ads in America might be divided between men seeking women and men seeking men, matrimonial ads in Nepal are broken down by caste.
The Dalits are the lowest caste. From the window of my bus, I saw Dalits living on the side of the polluted Ring Road. They are unofficially banned from places we took for granted—barber shops, tea shops, and restaurants. So they set up a small mirror on the trunk of a tree, place a wooden stool next to it, and this serves as a barber shop. I watched other men come around selling them glasses of dud chyiaa (milk tea) from a makeshift cup-holder. They created their own parallel lives, outside, among their own. It had been this way for their fathers and their fathers before that. But to me, it was infuriatingly unjust. I tried to accept Nepal exactly as it was; I told myself that cultures should be treated equally, that my own culture is terribly flawed and would appear even more so, I imagined, to outsiders. But I grew to despise the caste system during those long bus rides around the Ring Road, and that feeling has never left me.
O ne evening, after the children had gone to bed, Sandra told us that she would be leaving for a while. She was heading out of the Kathmandu Valley to go trekking near Rara Lake in a region called Mugu.
“Which is where, exactly?” asked Chris.
“Western Nepal. Rara Lake—it’s a trekking route, but nobody goes anymore because it is far from tourist routes, and because of the Maoists. But I found a guide who will take me!” She was giddy with excitement. Sandra was an avid hiker and mountain climber—this sounded like exactly her kind of adventure.
“And you’re not worried?” I asked.
“About what?”
“I don’t know—Maoists?”
I didn’t know much about the civil war, but what I did know worried me. In early 1996, the Maoist Party—an extreme Communist wing—had launched an insurgency. Their objective was to end the 250-year “feudal” rule of the monarchy. For the first several years, the uprising was considered a police matter—a series of scuffles in remote villages. But the rebel army expanded its ranks, first with men, then women, then children.
With their growing numbers and no effective counterforce, the rebel army grew stronger. Villages, then districts, then entire regions fell under Maoist control. In 2002 the Maoists dragged the Royal Nepalese Army into the conflict overnight with the bombing of an army barracks in western Nepal. Soon the Maoists controlled virtually the entire country, save the largest urban centers and the Kathmandu Valley. We were told again and again that it was simply not safe to travel in Maoist-controlled territory. Sandra’s destination, Rara Lake, was in Maoist territory.
“It will
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