On the main street we found the house of her Nepali friend's uncle where we were invited to stay. In keeping with male tradition, he held sway over the household.
We were greeted by his daughter-in-law, a pretty, sad-eyed young woman gracefully molded into a bright sari. She led us upstairs to the living quarters and left us to summon others of her family and to bring us tea.
Her younger brother, husky, good-looking young man wearing shorts and a black T-shirt emblazoned with "BOO," immediately made us feel at home. He had just returned after six years in Russia, where he learned the language and now was a doctor.
Her husband came in with their 2-year-old son who belted me in the eye while he was being introduced to us. Gina tried to hold the kid who almost ripped off her glasses. She found it humorous. "Male dominance is instilled from childhood," she said. "Great," I thought. "He tries it again I'll return the favor."
Male children are pampered, Gina said later. It is different with female children. Male dominance is instilled from childhood.
The daughter-in-law floated around the household in the background, seemingly serene, cleaning, cooking, washing, serving, keeping her unruly son in check.
With sweet words. She seemed to be barely acknowledged, even by her husband. She had trained to be a microbiologist. "She was only the daughter-in-law, whose job was to produce children, preferably male, and to serve the family," Gina said. "If she produces more children, her status in the family will rise."
Gina reveled in speaking Nepali and chatted away with the people we met as if they were long lost friends.
Our hostess was a tiny, merry, wrinkled lady who moved about unobtrusively. Gina and she hit it off like long-lost-friends. Gina reveled in speaking Nepali again.
We went to look for her school and the house she had lived in. She said everything seemed different. We found the school, a drab, mildewed, two-story concrete survivor, empty for the day but still in use. The classrooms looked much the same despite the passage of three decades, Gina said.
Because it was surrounded by newer buildings, her former house and the school were hard to find. The school was a drab, mildewed survivor, with bare-bones classrooms but looking the same as they did three decades ago, Gina said.
Gina's apartment was in a small stuccoed building. It seemed uninhabited and forlorn. A messy, muddy puddle obstructed the front door. A curtain-less window with a gourd on the sill looked out over the dirt road to the river.
A tailor had his shop across the street. There was a moment of uncertainty. Then they recognized each other. He had opened the shop as a young man shortly before Gina arrived. His beard now was streaked with gray. He insisted we have a Coke in his shop. He had four sewing machines, and people working for him, and evidently was doing well. He told Gina her landlord had passed away.
We bought pineapples and bananas from street vendors for the tailor and his family and returned to the household. We were served snacks in the living room where a video of "The Lion King" was playing on the TV. One plate contained a pile of boiled boar bits that after our first tentative bite, were quickly made to disappear.
That night there was a festival commemorating the dearly departed. We were on the dark main street as a clang of drums and cymbals approached. Bobbing kerosene lanterns splashed wavering light on the shadowy male marchers who whirled and danced as the shouted a rhythmic chant. Our host was among them, thumping vigorously on a small drum.
Later, Gina asked our happy host what it all meant. "It has been going on for generations," he said. "We don't even know why we do it anymore. But we do it. It's just a tradition."
Later we went to bed in the room that had been prepared for us. Half asleep I was aware of someone arranging a mosquito netting over me. We woke shortly after dawn to see two cow heads floating past our window. That seemed strange since we were on the second floor. We learned later they were attached to long sticks that were draped with cloth. Each was carried by a marcher who looked out through slits in the cloth. Below each carved head was a portrait of a deceased person. It was a festive, yet solemn day, a mix of solemnity and holiday cheer.
Everyone was cordial when we left. The daughter-in-law embraced Gina who in return, gave her a little present. Touched, she said to Gina, "I like you very much."
Nick Ellena, a retired reporter with the Enterprise-Record who covered Butte County government for decades, shares his memories of his world travels in this column.
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