Dhanyabad, Namaste, Bling

We had been looking for the monastery for about an hour. It was, were were sure, "somewhere around here," since we had seen it a couple times coming in and out of Darjeeling by jeep. We were pretty convinced that we were on the right road, but it was difficult to judge the distances originally seen from a car now that we were on foot. Still, it couldn't been much further, could it?

We started asking people at random. "Thulo gumba kahaa chaa?" One shopkeeper pointed us down a set of steep winding steps just a few yards away. "Dhanyabad," we said. "Huncha," the man replied after a pause. As we walked away he watched us, slightly disapproving, slightly perplexed.

Ansel and I obediently tromped down the stone stairs, past a surprisingly spacious tailoring shop, an old woman putting our laundry, a little girl and a midnight black dog. We peered around on tiptoe, trying to spot the big red roof of the monastery. Ansel said he thought he could see it and waved at a vaguely Chinese looking building a little ways in the distance. That wasn't it, of course, but it renewed our hopes anyways. Further down the steps, I stumbled upon the outdoor shower area of several scrawny, sad eyed boys. One wore a shirt that said "Drugs Kill - Sid Vicious." Another had "My body is a temple: I worship food." I poked my head into a doorway at random and discovered what a neatly painted sign named the "Buddhist Mission Boys Home." This must have been what the shopkeeper thought we meant by "monastery." We returned to the road.

We stopped and asked a group of men playing Parcheesi. They didn't know. We nodded and, saying nothing, walked away, awkwardly.

We first entered the program house meeting room a little over a month ago. Doors, windows, chairs, etc. were all labeled, and, since this is where we take some of our meals, the walls were also posted with terms meaning "please give a little" or "please give more." There was also a list of useful phrases: "speak slowly," "what's up?" "how are you?"

And there was the word "dhanyabad," which the poster translated as "thank you." We picked up on the word immediately, using it to thank the kitchen staff, shop vendors, people we talked to on the street, everyone. We used it, essentially, like "thank you."

This was not correct. After about a week Tanya got us all together and explained our error. Apparently "dhanyabad" didn't so much mean "thank you" as "I am deeply in your debt." Oops.

Among the various stereotypes about westerners that people have in India and Nepal, there is the perception that American "thank you"s are "cheap." In America, the norm is to thank everyone for everything, even when they have done little or nothing to warrant your gratitude. To Nepalis, this sort of overuse drains the word of meaning. Much like humor, courtesy doesn't translate.

Until coming to India, I never realized what how strong a compulsion our western courtesies are, or how integral they are to making encounters go smoothly. I still feel awkward parting after small purchases or quick requests for directions. The fact that Nepali also lacks a distinct word for "goodbye" doesn't help much either. The people of Darjeeling and Kalimpong, however, they just tilt their heads in the expressionless Indian side-nod, and watch you as you leave.

I haven't gotten used to the stares, either. Staring simply isn't taboo here. If asked about it, people get confused. "What? I'm just looking." Still, years of growing up under different sets of courtesies has programmed me to get nervous or upset as people's eyes follow me everywhere. "Am I doing something wrong?" I wonder to myself, and then "What the fuck are they looking at?" I grit my teeth and walk on, eyes determinedly forward in the best American fashion, trying to look like it is completely natural for me to be here.

These differences illuminate some subtle facets of Nepali culture. Often times people will stare, grim and expressionless, until I get close enough and decide to "namaste," a greeting meaning "I bow to the divinity in you." "Namaste," like "dhanyabad," is not meant to be thrown around lightly, however. It is meant to be saved for initiating the sorts of interaction that speckle Nepali social lives--stopping to chat on the road, or being invited in for tea. Still, I find myself using it when only passing, just to see the person's face break into a relaxed smile.

The blank looks I get when passing have a reason, though. "Namaste" is always performed first by the party of lower status. Status, usually dictated by age, penetrates every aspect of Nepali culture. Even in the language itself pronouns do not distinguish between gender, but always distinguish between status. If you namaste a child, or address them without the diminutive form of "you," they'll burst into giggles at the jokes of the funny westerner. If you fail to namaste someone older, they'll just stare at you stonily.

These are some of the most deeply ingrained elements of Gorkha society. Things are changing though. Having acknowledged that western "thank you"s are cheap, many people have started using the English term for just such cheap occasions as thanking a shopkeeper or waiter. The same with "sorry," since the closest Nepali has is a term meaning "excuse me." I wonder, however, where it is all heading. English words and western courtesies are being appropriated to fill in the gaps in languages and cultures all over the world. This isn't an accident, but the direct effect of the prevalence of English television and media. The more media we are exposed to, the more we base our understanding of norms of behavior on what they display--despite the fact that even non-fiction television and movies are inevitably an imperfect and distorted depiction of reality.

But I'm not sure it is a bad thing, at least not the courtesies. There is a distinct sense of alienation and "otherness" that comes with encountering a different set courtesies that one doesn't understand, and it is these feelings that, in my opinion, make it so hard to feel connected to people from other cultures and parts of the world. Building that much more common ground, even if it is western dominated common ground, could do a lot to create the sort of species/planet awareness that is so necessary to solving the basic conflicts of the human race. It is easier not to care about someone you've never met, someone completely different, someone who would stare at you as you walk by. But if "please" and "sorry" and "thank you" are shared worldwide, that makes us just a little less different, a little more connected.

There is an argument here for promoting English-dominance, globalization, and monoculture. And you know, there's a sort of appeal to the idea that I could walk into a Starbucks or a Burger King anywhere in the world and always know what to do, what to order--to never feel awkward or out of place.

But then I think of those kids at the Buddhist Boys Home, with their ironic t-shirts, and of businessmen I pass with Britney Spears ringtones. And of "Bling," the first hip-hop themed party in Darjeeling and a fundraiser for the suspiciously vague cause of "the environment." It was a sad affair of fights and drinking and bad dancing. What was most unsettling, though, was that many of these kids were clearly idolizing a culture they didn't fully understand. Just like kids in America who fall in love with anything and everything Japanese or "Asian," they lack the clear understanding of what in our culture is cliche, kitschy, ironic, retro, or otherwise not taken seriously. For us, the name "Bling" was hilarious, but for the Nepalis of Darjeeling it was completely serious. This is the real danger of monoculture and globalization: what if the process of homogenizing doesn't just destroy non-dominate cultures and customs, but produces a final product too bland and cartoonified to tolerate?

Culture is too huge and entwined and self-referencing to understand completely, or to export accurately. One way or another, however, it is all heading somewhere. I can see it in the kids of Kalimpong, their thugged out dress, posters of Avril Lavigne, and love of English. Can they possibly be expected to want the same sort of life lived by their parents, and their grandparents, going back generations? With everything they've seen, can we expect them not to have ambitions? But when they grow up, will our civilization be able to support them and give them escape from farming and shopkeeping and the simple life in the hills? The somewhere that we are all heading is too ephemeral and blurry with possibilities to pin down. Still, it can't be much further, can it?