In the Dark I remembered why

I volunteered for a Habitat for Humanity Global

Village build.

The lights went out without warning. We were
left to eat the last of our meal in darkness,
finalizing payment as the generator groaned to
life and the lights flickered back into sporadic
action; a dull, orange glow - on again, off again.
Sometimes brightly, strongly, warmly. Sometimes
weakly, barely at all, a candle would have been
stronger. At other times there was no glow and
we stood in the restaurant, again in total
darkness. An interesting relationship between
light and dark continued for some time as
Sandeep engaged in conversation with the man
in the small booth at the front of the restaurant
taking our money . In the recesses of my mind a
memory surfaced. I had been in a situation like
this before, a relationship like this before.

Sandeep and I stepped out into the darkness of
the street and we made our way down the maze
of backstreets and laneways back to the flat.
Sandeep moved as if in broad daylight. I followed
closely, blindly, stumbling and staggering,
unsure of footstep, unsure of direction, but well
aware of the hazards on the track. In daylight
these hazards are clearly visible and easily
avoided. At night, in the dark, it is a minefield for
the night vision impaired tourist, Andrew. We
make it back to the flat arriving unscathed but
with the flat still in darkness. In the absence of
any light we talk briefly, sharing life stories,
stirring memories of the last few weeks then go
to bed. It is only 8.35pm. The town we are in is
Birtamod. I had just arrived back to this town. I
had been staying at the small bazaar of
Chandradagi with Neeru and her family.

As Sandeep sleeps I lie awake on the bed we
share. His sleeping breath, barely audible,
whispers into the night. In my mind the images
and thoughts of my last days in Chandradagi
rewind on a loop.
Faces, places, landscapes. Words, smells and
tastes. Faces, places, landscapes. Words, smells
and tastes. They come and go with the in and out
of his breath and I wonder at the experience I
have just had.

A transaction is done. Wearing a man's face, the
young teenage boy measures the quantity of
dazzling, golden yellow powder, turmeric, as
requested. He bags it, and with the deft
exchange of a magician and face of a poker
player the transaction is completed. The next
customer places their order and raises it some
more. They must know the wonderful properties
of the spice. Turmeric, boiling water and salt
saved my life once.

In a blink of the eye an image of the morning
fills my mind. In the early light of dawn, people
spill out of the houses and drift in off the
footpaths into the bazaar to collect provisions,
drink a chai and await the freshly steaming
ground rice morsels cooked kerbside over small
wood fired cooker. They come and go in a
constant stream. Colour and life excites my
senses. I smell coffee. I eat a rice morsel and
drink chai. Where is the coffee now?. I shut my
eyes hoping to sleep.

Chandradagi is busy. Chandradagi is sleepy.
Chandradagi is a little bazaar at the confluence
of four dusty roads and several footpaths. These
footpaths link to surrounding fields and nearby
village housing, bringing locals to this lively
bazaar constantly. There are the occasional lulls
when not a lot stirs the air. In the afternoon
however, Chandradagi swells with people,
produce and a buzz of social commercial activity
spread out on tarpaulins in the open space
beneath the shade of large ancient fig trees. This
is the dry season.

Sandeep continues to sleep deeply. Through the
window beside the bed a light shines. Kitchen
noises from the building next door clang into the
night. The power has come back on and people
are once again busy. The clanging of pots and
pans continues for some time and the light
shines without flicker. A bell rings. This is my
last night in Birtamod. Tomorrow I head back to
Kathmandu.

A dream interrupts my insomnia and settles the
dust. I am standing, waving goodbye to my
Habitat for Humanity companions, “the greatest
team ever”, for the last time.

For the last time they walk down the patchy
grassed pathway of Shivgunj to the waiting bus.
For the last time they climb the steps and pack
themselves inside. For the last time I hear the
familiar laughter and chatter as it issues out the
open windows, this time mixed with some
silence. For the last time the bus moves out, dust
rising, faces in the back window, heads and arms
out the side waving. Gobbled up in the dust for
the last time, they are gone. Neeru and Binod are
by my side, transfixed by what had just occurred.
What do I do now?.

I turn onto my side still unable to sleep.

A goat bleats beside me. Women make their way
back from the fields carrying large bundles of
straw. The last of the field is ploughed. Animals
are taken home. Young children take flight upon
calls and bound homeward after a hard days
play. Fires are lit and smoke drifts into the
airwaves above the fields, settling as a soft haze.
I had a goat once. His name was Scout. As the
goat beside me bleats I am reminded of
Scout's smell; his cute, mischievous ways and of
the walks he took me on across the fields and up
the hills at home. I love goats.

I turn again, cover my head with the blanket and
shut my eyes in the dark.

A silver eel quietly slinks away. Mahendra packs
the mud and levels the earthen floor as I dump
another load of flooring material. We stop for
chai, admire the building, then wander off down
to the river, the silver eel quietly slinking away
southward. This silvery eel is the Mia Khola. We
watch its passing as people wade across from
the distant shore. We stand beside the steady
flow. Mahendra talks of the river during
monsoon; how it swells, how it rages, how high it
gets, how it changes course, how no one can
cross it, how land is swept away and how homes, lives
and livelihoods are lost. When at its highest it is
catastrophic.

My mind wanders to the neighboring districts of
Saptari and Sunsari where, just prior to the build,
in the last weeks of the monsoon, the Koshi
River, the “River of Sorrow”, burst out of the
Himalaya and inundated the plains of the Terai.
In Nepal some 70,000 people were affected. The
river then roared on into India and Bangladesh,
rendering some 3 million people homeless and
assigning more than a million people to live in
relief camps indefinitely. This has occurred
throughout history. The river takes life, the river
sustains life. I lived by a river once, the
Bellenger, in NSW. It flooded regularly and on
occasion we were stuck for several days which
meant no school and an exciting ride in the
canoe. Once supplies had to be airlifted in. After
a few days life was pretty much back to normal.

I toss again and uncover my head. I don't like
sleeping with my head covered. It must be nearly
morning.

Why did I volunteer to take part in this
Habitat for Humanity Global village build?.

A million more images and memories of friends,
faces, sights, places, landscapes, and experiences
fill my head. The light outside the window goes out
and darkness once again fills the window. I lie
awake. Instead of sleep I say goodbye. Into the
fading light we ride the potholed road from
Chandradagi to the main highway. Over the last
few days my stomach had been a bit delicate.
Clutching the rack on the back of Sandeeps
motorbike, my pack straining my grip, we meet
the highway and darkness overtakes us. My stomach
groans. Am I going to be sick?. People everywhere
appear out of the darkness, traveling roadside. Cycles,
goats, cows, buffalo being led. Buses scream by,
horns blaring and in the headlights, a bright sari,
elegantly worn, adorns the night briefly. Fires are
lit and dance amongst the trees and houses.
Pungent smoke fills the air. At a distance from
the road, amongst a bamboo grove, lights shine
and fires burn. People in makeshift shelters cook
their evening meal. The air has a coolness. We
come to the bridge that spans the Mia Khola. A
small fire burns on the banks below the bridge
and on the river, a lighted lamp, floats
southward, swirling gently. Away down to the
south, in the direction of Shivgunj, a lone fire
just pierces the smoky dark and I am drawn to it
through wetted eyes. My thoughts drift between
the moving scene, the build, and the people I
have grown to know over these last few weeks,
and to my home and my family. I see a myriad
happy faces in the darkness. I see great new
friends. I see a wonderful hospitality and I see a
generosity of spirit shared. It was an experience
beyond my expectations.

In the darkness, in that instant, I knew why I
really volunteered.

I Once Knew a Cheerful Sage