Thin Places

A Pilgrimage Home

Ann Armbrecht

• Publisher: Columbia University Press
• Year: 2008
• ISBN:
  9780231518291
• Topic: Social Sciences
• Subtopic: Anthropology
• Index: Social Sciences

Thin Places is an eloquent meditation on what it means to move between cultures and how one might finally come home, a particular paradox in a culture that lacks deep ties to the natural world. During the 1990s, Ann Armbrecht, an American anthropologist, made several trips to northeastern Nepal to research how the Yamphu Rai acquired, farmed, and held onto their land; how they perceived their area's recent designation as a national park and conservation area; and whether—as she believed—they held a wisdom about living on the earth that the industrialized West had forgotten.

What Armbrecht found instead were men and women who shared her restlessness, people also driven by the feeling that there must be more to life than they could find in their village. "We each blamed our dissatisfaction on something in the world," she writes, "not something in ourselves or in the stories we told ourselves about that world. If only we lived elsewhere, then we would be at home."

Charting Armbrecht's travels in the mountains of Nepal and in the United States and her disintegrating marriage back home, Thin Places is ultimately an exploration not of the sacred far-off but of the sacredness of places that are between—between the internal and external landscape, the self and others, and the self and the land. She finds that home is not a place where we arrive but a way of being in place, wherever that place may be. Along the way, Armbrecht explores the disconnections in our most intimate relationships, how they stem from the same disconnections that create our destruction of the land, and how one cannot be healed without attending to the other.

1

GROWING RICE

July 1992

HEDANGNA, NEPAL

I stood ankle deep in mud, bent at the waist, and pressed pale green rice seedlings into the gritty mud. The mud was thick and brown and felt cool around my feet. My damp lungi clung to my thighs, and my shawl was draped over my head to keep out the morning rain. I finished planting the seedlings I held in my hand and waded across the terraced field to get another handful from a bamboo basket on the edge of the terrace. I waded back to my place, stubbing my bare toes on small rocks as I went; bent down; and again pressed the seedlings into the mud. I paid attention to the work at hand, my mind lulled by the rhythm of planting, by the voices of the dark-haired women working at my side, by the slosh of mud and the rippling of water.

The soil in the field where we worked was dark and fertile. The survival of these women and their families and of this village in eastern Nepal depended on this soil and what it produced, especially rice. The rice season began in May with the bali puja (crop ritual). Villagers built altars for the ancestors and laid out offerings of chicken and jad (millet beer), eggs and rice: gifts of food and drink in exchange for rain. After the ceremonies, the rains began and the streams flowed, bringing water to the cracked earth. Men woke before dawn, filled a wooden cask with beer, and drove their teams of oxen down the hill to plow their terraced fields. I woke some time later to the sound of rain on bamboo leaves outside my window and the shouts of the men as they steered the oxen through the mud, plowing the soil in preparation for planting the rice. I tried to plow once and was surprised by the feel of the earth through the shaft of wood, surprised by the intimacy of the connection between the men and the soil, even though they were not digging through the gritty dirt and sharp stones with their fingers, as the women did when they came through with the seedlings after the fields had been plowed.

The structures in the village, the shrines and houses and fences and fields, were built to be lived in and worked on. If they were not used, the forest quickly crept back in. Wind and rain tore down altars made of bamboo and saplings several days after a ritual. Fallow fields became overgrown with weeds and ferns after a year or two and were reclaimed by the jungle after five. The stone-and-mud houses were dank and cold until they had been lived in, until cooking fires had dried out the chill. They cracked and crumbled if fresh mud mixed with cow dung was not rubbed over the walls on the mornings of the full moon and the new moon each month. The thatched roofs became matted and began to leak if they were not replaced every year; the moisture then loosened the rocks from the mud, and the walls began to fall. Abandoned houses were inhabited by pigs and goats after three or four years and soon became piles of stones.

If Hedangna were deserted for thirty or forty years, the moss-covered rocks and the terraces would be the only remains, but the stones of the terraces would have eroded, the walls collapsed, and the fields become covered with trees. The land continued to be habitable only because of the ceaseless work that kept it that way.

The weather and seasons as much as the villagers’ own needs and objectives shaped the rhythm and pace of work. They lacked the tools needed to submit the land to their will. Instead, they moved across it slowly, by hand, feeling their way for openings, for places where the plow would move smoothly and the seedling would stand, turning from places where the earth would not give. This knowledge was not broad or transferable; the villagers became less sure of things when they found themselves at a higher or a lower elevation. What they knew was rooted in the land that sustained them.

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I had come to Hedangna to conduct research for a doctorate in social anthropology, to understand how the Yamphu Rai got rights to the land and how they held onto that land. I wanted to understand their perspectives on the area’s recent designation as a conservation area, a buffer zone to a new national park a few days’ walk up the ridge. I was also there because I wanted to discover how to live more simply and more lightly on the earth. I assumed that most problems in America stemmed from our disconnection from the land, economically and culturally. In Hedangna, the impact of the villagers’ ways of living on other people and the earth were immediately and concretely visible. Trees cut this year meant walking farther for firewood next year. A dispute with a neighbor meant one less person to turn to for labor or help. I wanted to understand what difference those close connections made in how they cared for one another and the land. And I was here because I believed that indigenous people had wisdom about how to live on the earth that we had lost. I wanted to understand whether that was true and, if so, what that wisdom was.

Hedangna is the largest village in what has come to be known as the Makalu-Barun region of northeastern Nepal, which begins to the east of Mount Everest and extends to the Arun River, one of the world’s deepest river gorges. Hedangna, the largest Yamphu Rai village in Nepal, is a community of around 273 households spread out at an elevation ranging from 2,700 to 5,800 feet along a gradual, east-sloping ridge above the upper banks of the Arun River. Distant mountains encircle the village, and when you are within these mountains, it is difficult to imagine being anywhere else.

The land is remote, even by Nepalese standards. Lines of communication between Hedangna and the outside world are tenuous. Some families have radios. Month-old newspapers occasionally arrive at the Nepal Bank at the southern edge of Hedangna, but few villagers bother to read them. It is a hard five-day walk to the nearest road and then an eighteen-hour bus ride to Kathmandu, the political and economic capital of Nepal. (Villagers measure distance in terms of time taken rather than distance covered.) Since the early 1980s, those with money for the airfare had walked for two days to an airstrip in Tumlingtar, a hot sleepy village along the Arun River several hours south of Khandbari, the district capital of Sankhuwasabha. But few villagers have the money to fly.

Each January, one or two members of each household walked for a day and a half south to Khandbari or for a week farther south to Basantapur to purchase their family’s yearly supply of salt and kerosene with money earned from selling rice to Bhotiyas from the north or to civil servants posted in the region; others went to the district court in Chainpur, a half day’s walk east of Khandbari, several times a year to plead their case in a land dispute. Brothers or sons who had emigrated to India sometimes returned for a visit, to check on their land or to bring back money and Indian cloth, and families with a son studying in Biratnagar or Kathmandu occasionally received a letter asking for more money.

For the people who stayed in Hedangna, the world beyond this valley was distant—beyond what they could imagine. An older woman once described the difference between their lives and mine. “You can see a plane, can get up close and touch it and climb inside,” she said. “We can only see its silvery bottom, high overhead, soaring through the sky.”

In the evenings, after a plate of rice or millet, men and women sat cross-legged on straw mats laid out on the mud floor, staring into the coals and talking about how many loads of firewood they had left to carry, whether they would plant cardamom in their forest, what would happen when the land survey came. Then they crawled under blankets woven from the wool of sheep grazed on pastures north of Hedangna and fell asleep to the dull roar of the Arun, a mile to the east.

In the mornings, Devimaya, a strikingly beautiful woman in her twenties who became my closest friend in the village, often asked what I had dreamed about the previous night. Sometimes I had dreamed about land disputes or the names on a genealogy. More often, I had been caught in a traffic jam in the polluted streets of Kathmandu or had been racing through a crowded airport to catch my flight home. When I asked her, she would sigh and say with exasperation, “If I carried firewood, I dream about carrying it all night long. If I planted rice all that day, I spend the night planting rice. I have to do this work all day—at least I could do something else in my dreams.”

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I was working in the rice field of Raj Kumar’s family. Raj was a few years younger than I and sometimes helped me with my research. Like most schoolteachers in the village, who spent their days behind a desk, he was a mix of the rough physical strength of a villager and the smooth polish of a civil servant—qualities that were more or less accentuated, depending on the people he was with and the clothes he was wearing. He wore wire-rim glasses and store-bought clothes, and he did not go barefoot. Each morning, he showed up at the water hole carrying his towels and toothbrush, like me. Everyone else brought jugs to fill with water, lungis to wash. They used rocks to scrub their feet. He, like me, used soap.

I had met Raj Kumar the first week I was in Hedangna. His younger brother came to my room the second morning after I arrived to ask if I would tutor him in English. As he left, he told me that his brother had been to Kathmandu and that I should meet him. I went to Raj’s house that afternoon and soon began to go there every day before dinner. Raj had spent two years in Kathmandu, studying for his Master of Education. Then, in his late twenties, he had had to return home because he had no more money and could not get a job and because his parents wanted him to come back. They arranged for him to marry one of the few Rai women in the region who had passed the high-school examination, because, as Devimaya said, someone who had studied in Kathmandu had to marry someone who could read. Raj, his wife, and their eighteen-month-old son lived in a small room next to his parent’s house, and Raj taught math in the village high school.

Raj was the first Yamphu who understood what it meant to conduct research, and he was the first villager with whom I really felt comfortable. I took copies of Newsweek to his house in the evenings before dinner. When I showed pictures in the magazines to women in the village, they slowly rotated the images, trying to find something they could recognize. Raj understood the photographs right away. He had seen cars and buses, tall buildings and jets. The pictures expressed something known, a window into a world with which he was familiar and in which he could immediately get his bearings. We looked at the photos and talked. He explained Nepali words to me, corrected my pronunciation. I explained world politics to him.

Raj depended on me for remembering the parts of himself that longed for something else, that did not want to be in Hedangna, did not want to be married and responsible for a small child. I reminded him of the dreams he had had as a young student in Kathmandu during the revolution of 1989. I could understand why he longed for the freedom and independence he had experienced during that time. That same longing had brought me to Hedangna. He could understand why I had chosen to leave my own home. Yet he could never grasp why, of all the places in the world I could have gone, I had chosen to spend two years of my life in a place he longed to leave.

In many respects, Raj believed more in the promise of the West than did I. He had tasted just enough of the modern world to think it was all good. Once he looked at his pen, which was identical to mine, except in color, and told me that my pen was better than his. Another time, his wife offered me a snack, salty bread sticks bought in a local tea shop and, like anything purchased in the village, considered a real treat. Raj waved his hand in disgust, saying that this snack was not nearly as good as the snacks and tea that I drank in my own room. I could look at my things and know what had quality and what did not. He could compare them only with his own. Measured in this way, his possessions inevitably came up short.

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Raj was plowing when I walked down to the field, and as he greeted me, he looked at the mud on his clothes and at his bare feet. “You don’t plow like this, in your country, do you?” he asked. “You use machines, and don’t have to muck around in the mud. Isn’t that right?”

I was as embarrassed by his questions as he was by the mud on his arms and hands. I answered as I always did when asked questions like this: yes, we farmed differently, but that did not necessarily mean that what we did was better. I said something about soil erosion from mechanized farming and then told him that I had come to help with the planting. He nodded and went back to plowing.

I took off my sandals, which were too heavy for the ankle-deep mud; climbed over the edge of the field into the muddy water; and asked his mother how I could help. She handed me a clump of seedlings and told me to plant next to Altasing’s wife.

I waded through the mud and began to plant as quickly and as carefully as I could. Altasing’s wife greeted me and immediately started to ask questions: What were Ganesh and Jaisita, in whose home I lived, doing that day? Did they eat rice or millet in their house (a question that was more an inquiry about their economic status—only the most wealthy could eat rice every day—than about taste)? What was the English word for “penis”? As soon as I answered one question, she asked another. In between questions, she told me to plant closer to the edge, or Raj’s mother would yell at me.

We worked steadily for some time, interrupted every now and then by Raj’s mother coming to see how we were doing. She shouted at her daughter-in-law to spread the mud around the terrace more thoroughly. She ordered her husband to get to work. And she yelled at me to plant the seedlings closer to the edge.

Raj’s mother scared me. She looked like my childhood image of a witch: her dark skin was dry and wrinkled; strands of black hair streaked with silver stuck out around her face before being pulled into a tight braid that hung down her back. Her green shirt was torn at the sides, and her dirty lungi was bunched up around her waist. Whenever I visited Raj Kumar’s house to speak with him, his mother offered me jad only after Raj had insisted. This beer was thick and slightly sour. It was the only beverage most families drank. Offering it to guests was the hospitable thing to do. As Raj’s mother handed me a bowl, she always commented that all I did was talk and write; that I did not have to “work,” as they did; and that I had not done anything to deserve this beer. I always accepted her words and the beer without comment. She was right. My work was a luxury to the villagers, especially the women, who hardly ever had a chance to sit around and talk. There was nothing for me to say. This was the first time I had gone to help in her family’s field, and I wanted to prove that I was able to do her kind of work.

After what seemed to be a long time, Raj’s mother called us over to the edge of the field, where she had prepared some jad. We rinsed our hands in an irrigation ditch that brought water into the fields and gathered in a small circle on a huge boulder. The women talked about how many terraces still had to be planted. They talked about who was planting their fields and where they would work the following day. Raj’s mother passed me a bowl of jad, along with everyone else. She urged me to drink it so she could fill it again.

When there was a lull in the conversation, she started to talk about how hard and how long I had worked. If I did not already have a husband, she said, she would marry me off to Deuman, her youngest son. The women laughed. Grateful to be included in her jokes, I replied that yes, yes I would of course marry her son, even though I was at least twelve years older than he was. I could have two husbands, I said. The conversation shifted to Brian, my husband, and what he was doing in America. They asked again why he was not with me and whether, when he came back, he would bring the photos that he had taken when he was here before.

The women rolled tobacco in leaves, rubbed a rock against a piece of flint to create a spark, and puffed on their homemade cigarettes. After we finished our jad, Raj’s mother handed a clump of the leftover fermented millet used to mix the beer to her daughter-in-law and then one to me. Raj, who had been silent until now, sharply told her that it was disgusting to use her bare hands, that of course I did not want to eat the millet. She started to pull her hand back. “No, no,” I said. “I like that part of the jad; it isn’t disgusting to me, at all.” She looked at Raj, uncertain who to believe. I again insisted, and she reached over and handed me a fistful of millet.

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In the evenings when there were batteries that worked, Devimaya would turn on the radio to hear the news. The loud voices, music, and static seemed out of place in the dark r...

Table of contents

• Cover 
• Half title
• Title
• Copyright
• Dedication
• Epigraph
• Contents 
• Preface
• Acknowledgments
• Part 1: Departure
• Part 2: Initiation
• Part 3: Return
• Part 4: Birth
• Bibliography