#its 5am and our neighbor is screaming at her husband next-door

[dmndgs]

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[strandsofcommonthread]

Weddings, Goats, and Opera Scales

Last night, none of our neighbors slept.

First, some background: You see, my bua (host dad) brought a new goat home yesterday afternoon.  Last week, we had five goats, but two of them were cut and sold to our neighbor’s wedding that took place on Sunday.  As it’s an auspicious time of the year, so there have been a lot of weddings recently, and last Sunday was a big one.  So we spent all morning at our neighbor's house, helping their family cook food for the wedding feast later in the day. (The system in Nepal is, for big community events where lots of people come to eat, everyone is expected to come that morning and help prepare the food that everyone will eat later that day.)

At the neighbor’s house, my dad oversaw the cooking of the goat meat, my mom chatted with her friends, and I sat around with a few women, de-shelling beans and speaking about wedding rituals in the States (this is typically how most “goal two” Peace Corps conversations work in the Peace Corps...some big event happens in the community, and when you go to that event, you end up talking about how that event would look in the States). As I sat with a group of women to tarkaari banaunu (prepare the vegetables), I asked them: “How early before you got married did you meet your husbands?” Their answers: one met 3 months before her wedding, a few met 1 week before, and the vast majority met and married their husbands the same day (one at the age of 12).

One woman, however, said that she met her husband two years before they got married. I was amazed. She saw my surprise and said "love mareez bhayo" (it was a love marriage), and then, as the other women around her laughed, she quickly corrected herself and said "nai, love/arrange bibaa bhayo" (no, it was a love then arranged marriage). All the woman around her nodded, clearly approving of her correction.

It's pretty amazing to observe how culture is changing here, especially around dating and marriage. Arranged marriages are still overwhelmingly dominant, and dating is still considered inappropriate for anyone living in a village, but more and more young people, after spending time in bigger cities or having friends abroad, have opted for an in-the-middle option: a love/arranged marriage.  In this option, young people are finding their own boyfriend/girlfriends, dating secretly, and then after a while, the boy mentions the girl’s name to his parents as an idea of someone he’d like to marry.  From there, the process moves forward as any arranged marriage would: the parents of the boy vet the girlfriend and her family (usually asking around to distant connections to see what people think of that family), call the girlfriend’s family on the phone to talk to them in person, go to meet the girlfriend and her family, and if they think she would be a good fit for their son, give approval (all the while pretending that the dating never happened).  Then, and only then, can the two get married.

It’s cool to see the merging of the old and the new, so that all generations come out happy.

Anywho, while we were all talking that morning about wedding rituals in Nepal and in the States (they were so shocked that the vast majority of weddings in the States are love marriages), my dad was overseeing the cooking of our two goats. With 64 kilos of goat meat total, at 600 rupees per kilo, my family did pretty well at that wedding.  (For some context, 38,400 rupees, or roughly USD $384.00, is nearly four times my host brother’s monthly salary working as a technician at the radio station.)

So, this week we decided to celebrate by installing screens on all the windows in our house (a roughly 20,000 rupee endeavor), and then starting the next cycle of goat rearing.  Thus, my dad brought a new goat home yesterday.

With a skilled eye, I should’ve immediately been able to tell that this goat was not like the others.  I should’ve noticed that this was not the khusi (neutered male goat) we usually raise, but instead a boka (un-neutered male goat).  And I should’ve known that this meant trouble.

But, alas, even after two years in Nepal, I didn’t notice.

Everything was fine until yesterday evening after dinner, maybe around 8:00pm, when I heard what sounded like a small child being tortured outside (also known as the sound of a goat in distress).  And I’m not talking about a quiet sound.  No.  This was loud.  LOUD.  And, as my cousin Khuma aptly said, “non eestop.”

At first, my whole family rallied.  We all immediately got up from our respective spots around the house – my dad watching TV, me reading in my room, my mom cleaning the dishes – and rushed outside to see if the goat had accidentally strangled itself with the rope.  This happens, every now and again, and my family is used to dropping everything whenever we hear this “goat in distress” sound, because (as you now realize), goats are precious cargo.

But, lo and behold, the goat was perfectly fine.  Just testing it’s vocal chords.

My dad told the goat to “chuup” (be quiet), readjusted its rope, and made sure it settled down.   So we all walked away, satisfied that the situation had been handled.

Until about five minutes later, when the hollering started up again.  Non eestop.

Soon, my host mom’s cell phone was ringing.  Our neighbors were calling to check in and see what was going on.  My host mom had to tell them that “kehi bhaye chhaina – tetikay bhayho.”  That, “nothing happened, it’s just doing that.” So, I closed my windows, my dad turned up the TV, and we all tried to get on with our evening routines.

A few hours later, after the goat had taken a short (maybe 5 minute break) and then continued it’s non eestop hollering, my host brother came home from work.  He banged open the door, ran into my parents room, and told them that something was wrong with the goat.  Once again, fearing the worst, my family went outside to check on the goat.  But, once again, it was perfectly fine.  Just testing it’s throat’s ability to make sound.  Perhaps practicing old opera scales from another lifetime, or something.

So everyone came back, and tried to settle into bed.  We went to our respective rooms.  Turned off the lights.  And got under the covers to protect ourselves from the nighttime chill of late winter refusing to turn into spring.

And yet….the hala (ruckus) continued.

On an on throughout the night, the goat screamed and screamed and screamed.  The noise entered my dreams.  It accompanied me to the bathroom at 2am to pee.  It wafted through the air, out of our house compound, into the fields and through the open windows of the mud homes of our neighbors.

And none of us slept much.

By the time morning came, I woke up to silence. I walked upstairs, and asked my mom “hijo saza, hamro bakra lai ke bhayo?” (Essentially: what the hell happened to our goat last night?)  She laughed, and asked “aaaay, tapai pani sunubhayo?” or “heyyyy, so you heard it too?”  She then turned and, talking to the other two women neighbors who had gathered at our house to discuss the goat, explained in her ever-sassy tone that “tyo bokale koraudai korayo, ani sutna nadini bhayo, ke!” or “that darned goat yelled and yelled, and didn’t let anyone sleep!” and that now it’s “katni bela bhayo” or “goat-cutting time.”

Turns out my dad, after getting out of bed at 5am, untied the goat, brought it up closer to the house, and started the necessary preparations for killing the goat.  The goat, happy with its newfound freedom from the confinement of our goat shed, happily stopped screaming.

Unfortunately for the goat, the timing was off.  Because, unbeknownst to the goat, as it stood happily in its new place of freedom, my dad called all his friends, boiled water, put out a tarp, gathered bowls, got out the meat scale, cleaned the knives, and then…killed the goat.

So that’s why, ladies and gentlemen, if you ever are reborn into the body of a goat, here’s a little tip: unless you’re being strangled by your rope, or there’s a tiger trying to eat you, hold off on your opera scales until morning.  Then, and only then, can you get to chance to live another few years before being the main attraction at the buffet table of the next community wedding.

With peace and plans for a long and much-needed nap today,

Rach