ISSUE 1
NEPALESE DREAMS
CULTURE, TRADITION & TRAFFIC JAMS
“HAVE YOU EVER BEEN TO THE ASIA BEFORE?” HE ASKS. “UHM, YES. I SPENT ONE WEEK IN TOKYO ONCE.” HE SMILES, BROWN EYES TWINKLING AND I CAN TELL THIS IS GOING TO BE LIKE NOTHING I’VE EVER SEEN BEFORE.
There is a goat in the little hatch-back next to us. He’s standing in the back where the luggage should be, face pressed against the window with a contented look on his little face, as if this is the most normal thing in the world.
I look at him from the back seat of our own little car and he looks at me. Then they are gone, swallowed by the heaving web of traffic cascading down the pot‐holed roads of Kathmandu.
Welcome to Nepal...
DASHAIN FESTIVAL
At least ten arms reach towards embodiment of the good wishes me, pressing the wet tika onto my and blessings bestowed upon us forehead while murmuring soft by our new family. words of blessings and good will. My folded hands attempt to catch Today is the main festival day, the red rice and curd mixture as it celebrated with good food, many drips from their hands onto my lap guests, visiting family members and the carpeted floor we sit on. and of course, the giving of the tika. Dashain festival is a time of open doors. There must be as many as twelve people in the small family lounge room, the eldest of whom are sitWe have already met half the ting on the floor in front of the tika village, as people come to visit mixture, ready to give the blessing and receive tika. It’s so beautiful to to the rest of the family. see the family giving tika’s, each person receives the same honest Each family member, friend and and transparent blessing, guest receive a tika that covers regardless of age, background or most of their forehead; a physical religion. Today is about wishing well for the future.
A man sits on the crumbling steps of a temple, its tiered roof offering shade from the midday sun. With arms folded across his lap, he watches the traffic racing by, stirring a cloud of dust around his shoulders. The crinkles around his eyes deepen as he squints through the dust and sunlight, as his eyes meet mine his face cracks into a wide smile and his hands raise to make Namaste.
Once again Durbar Square has been transformed. It seems that with each visit, the magnificent Old Town is host to yet another cultural celebration. Newari Women, matching in their black and red traditional dress, sit closely around a row of hotplates and bowls, filling the streets with the smells of traditional food and drink on offer.
Returning the gesture, I follow his Behind them, music from the main gaze to the square opposite, where stage echoes between the temples make shift tents, colourful flags and and courtyards, mixing with the decorations have been erected to laughter and chatter of the crowded border the river of people weaving street. their way through.
DURBAR SQUARE
WOODCARVING TALENT HAND CRAFTED JHLAJSHF;V D;VM;KSHBDVK
LIVING GODDESS Bright young eyes look up through darkened rims, the hot sun causing the makeup to run slightly. The girl’s mother fixes the jewels fastened to her hair and the hem of her dress from beneath the slight shade offered by an umbrella. The goddess only emerges from her home, the Kumari Che, on a few special occasions each year, and today is one. She is only young, but her presence commands the attention of the encircling crowds as they gather to catch a glimpse of their Living Goddess.
WE ARE STANDING AT THE EDGE OF THE EARTH As we climb higher along the ridge, the clouds close in to The entire world just kiss our cheeks, leaving our seems to drop away in all skinslightly damp and cold. directions, dissolving We are 3000m above sea level, into grey as thick clouds between Tadipani and engulf the range we are Ghorepani, and on a clear day standing on. this ridge would award trekkers with 360 degree mountain vistas; but for us, we will have to wait another day.
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LEAVING KATHMANDU The waiting area is enclosed by I walk through the dusty halls to the wall to wall windows, so there is still departure lounge, boarding pass and another ten or fifteen awful minutes pillow in hand, looking for a place to where I can see them all standing wait. It’s pretty crowded even for the there, collars up against the cold red hour flights departing this late, night air as they wave and press so I end up perched on a window sill their faces against the glass, leaving where I figure at least I can pass the dragon breath marks that obscure time by staring outside. their view, eyes following my every step as I stand in line with some Then it hits me. Finally. unheard of level of composure. It was the night that did it. Isn’t it always the smallest things that mean You’re leaving your family, I tell the most. This is the last time I’ll look myself, again wishing tears would out into the same night as them. The stream down my cheeks so they tears finally come and they did so would have some idea how much without reserve. I sIt alone, with no they mean to me. They’ve all come one to hold me and tell me they’ll miss to see you off, and you can’t even me too, as the sobs racked my body manage one tear. and the tears I’d wished for flowed What a heartless bitch. down my face and soaked my scarf.
I’m tripping through the streets of Thamel, doe eyed and foggy, with the sights and sounds of Nepal’s capital closing in. At least we are moving, that’s important right now. We need to keep moving because the ground feels like it’s getting away on us. I’m surrounded by lights poking holes in the thick dust that chokes the streets. Dust that creeps in through your mouth and fills you up, sliding beneath your skin.
I AM WILDRICE JOURNALISM PHOTOGRAPHY CULTURE STYLE
Wild Rice, est. 2013, was created by Jessica Rhian as an exploration of the world and the stories of wonder within.
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