On a normal day, Kathmandu is a bustling, slightly berserk city that appears to be in a constant state of mania. Every stimulus that touches the senses seems to be magnified to the tenth power – the incessant and at times deafening blaring of horns (particularly when the vehicles are about five inches from your ear), the vibrant rainbow of gracefully draped kurta salwar on the equally graceful women, the pungent odor wafting from sun-warmed heaps of trash, the heart-wrenching sight of dirt-covered orphans and beggars contrasted with the historic beauty of majestic Hindu temples and shrines. It brings new meaning to the hopelessly inadequate term “sensory overload”; but somehow, the chaos has a rhythm and the ear-shattering sounds have a quasi-musical quality. Somehow, it works.

…That is, until another almost daily facet of Nepali life rears its head: the all-too-common bandh. (“Bandh” means “closed” in Nepali; it consists of a disruption of daily functioning, usually in the form of a roadblock or an order for businesses to close. Bandhs are sometimes accompanied by protest activity such as marching, burning objects in the street, vandalizing vehicles and property, punishing/attacking those who “violate” the strike, etc.) A bandh is not your typical demonstration; in its most extreme forms, such an event can entail a total shutdown of all local activity. However, the majority of bandhs originate due to rather petty reasons (such as a disagreement between neighbors), are not politically orchestrated, and only last a few hours. Moreover, destruction and violence are not always part of the equation.

Monday’s bandh – the first that I’ve experienced since arriving in Nepal – was atypical in how far-reaching and heated it became (there were five such events throughout the country, and said bandh in Kathmandu City effectively crippled all of the Kathmandu Valley area). The evening before, a violent clash had erupted between the police and the Young Communist League (YCL) over the alleged assassination of a high-profile Maoist leader. The next day, the Maoists got rather miffed and staged an all-day bandh, beginning at 5 a.m. and continuing through the night. All of a sudden, boisterous Kathmandu had morphed into a ghost town; roads were desolate save for individuals wielding the red hammer-and-sickle flag. All shopkeepers and business owners were required to shut down and keep their metal shutters drawn; violators of the strike willingly opened themselves up to brutal punishment as seen fit by the demonstrators.

Some action shots provided by news outlets:

A Maoist supporter is seen holding an iron rod during a clash with Nepalese riot police in Katmandu, Nepal, Sunday, June 14, 2009. (AP Photo/Binod Joshi)

Photo by Associated Press.

A Maoist supporter holding an iron bar shouts slogans during a clash with Nepalese riot police in Katmandu, Nepal, Sunday, June 14, 2009. (AP Photo/Gemunu Amarasinghe)

Photo by Associated Press.

Nepalese women run from tear gas as Maoist supporters clash with Nepalese riot police in Katmandu, Nepal, Sunday, June 14, 2009. (AP Photo/Gemunu Amarasinghe)

Photo by Associated Press.

And some of my own photos attempting to capture the aftermath:

Remnants of burnt property after the riots.

A YCL (Young Communist League) flag lingers in the gutter.

A path of destruction.

It was both eerie and bizarre to see two completely different shades of Kathmandu in such a short time span, and amid all of the discord. Of course, as an outsider, I know the context is far more complex than meets the eye. The Maoists still boast a significant number of loyal supporters, but events such as the case at hand indicate that fear of further bloodshed remains palpable and prevalent. Many Nepalis’ faith in the government is so far gone that they believe meaningful reform, in terms of democracy and representation, is simply not feasible without resorting to extreme measures. A local businessman told me he feels that the system here seems so irreparably corrupted that the only reasonable solution may be total implosion, and starting anew thereafter.

As stated by a well-known Maoist commander two days ago: “We don’t want to go back to war, but we might have to.”

3:00 a.m., and I was finally drifting toward sleep. I was psyched at the thought of being able to sleep in, considering that I’d gotten around two hours of sleep per night over the past three or four days. What a risible idea that turned out to be. I’d heard before that the Nepali people as a whole begin the day essentially when the roosters crow, but I was certainly not expecting what would follow.

5:00 a.m. rolls around and I hear what sounds like some combination of a huge marching band and a lynch mob making its way down the street. Men and women are fervidly belting out verses with the cheery enthusiasm of holiday church carolers, and as the crowd inches closer to our guesthouse, I hear various “instruments” that sound like large metal culinary tools clanging against even larger pots and pans. The crowd stops moving and the clanging grows louder and faster, as the rhythmic chants ripen into spirited shrieks. At this point I’m getting rather excited myself – I’m dying to go outside and see what all the commotion is about. Equal parts curious and confused, I climb out of bed and fumble for my glasses – and realize that the ear-shattering racket is…fading!

Nooooooooo, don’t leave yet! I silently plead with the singers (chanters?). By the time I find my shoes, it’s already too late – the music, shrieking, and banging are out of earshot. I very reluctantly restrain myself from running down the street in my pajamas like a madwoman to chase this band-of-sorts (though the thought continues to creep up).

I sigh, defeated, and ease back into bed. Though I’m mad at myself for being too slow to find out whether the ceremonious marching/racket was as much fun to see as it was to hear, I welcome the opportunity to fall back asleep for a little while longer. Just as I’m getting comfortable again, the noise vacuum is filled by dogs – lots and LOTS of dogs – howling, barking, and yelping excitedly, all the while rivaling the marching band (I’m using the term loosely at this point) in loudness and pitch. My heart sinks; I know they’re all strays, and probably all starving. I feel yet another urge to run out of the guesthouse in my pajamas to tend to these guys. It’s a good thing there were no doggie biscuits anywhere, because I probably wouldn’t have been able to stop myself otherwise.

Twenty minutes pass, and the vendors come out. The dogs have been bellowing their turgid, redundant song this entire time, and are loathe to give up the spotlight for the a.m. merchants. The street has now morphed into a stage for a yelling competition between the humans and the canines – and it’s a damn close match. The dogs eventually admit defeat, though, as more and more human voices fill the air. I wonder what they are shouting about so intently and trying to sell at six in the morning; the metal gate separating the guesthouse from the street has rendered all of these sounds a mystery (and as such, all the more interesting).

It’s a lively and musical morning in Kathmandu, and it’s far too sunny and intriguing outside to stay in bed any longer. My first day in Nepal awaits me, and I can’t wait to take it all in. Delirious from a week of sleep deprivation, I rise with a big smile on my face.

No, we’re not concluding a yoga class.

I’ve just arrived in Kathmandu, and the sky is quite generous with late-night rainfall. In the car with Prakash from the JMC and Asbin – a former JMC worker and current caretaker of Casa Dei Guesthouse – we are en route to said guesthouse in Lalitpur. “Namaste”, the Nepali word for hello, is the only word I’ve managed to NOT completely mangle during the enjoyable impromptu language lesson that’s begun during the ride.

The ice has broken quickly, and we’re all sharing a great deal of laughter. There are two main sources of our giggling: the spine-shattering bumps in the narrow urban streets, and my pitiful attempts at pronouncing various Nepali phrases (the more I repeat them, the more ridiculous I sound). Our lungs fill with syrupy, dank smog with each guffaw, but the awkward cough-laugh that results only makes things more humorous. It’s not all fun and games, though.

It’s nearly midnight, but the streets are far from empty; zoo-like gangs of mangy dogs wander freely, and baton-wielding policemen stand watchfully. Prakash explains that after the recent resignation and replacement (via political appointment rather than popular election) of the Nepali prime minister, the already pervasive demonstrations in the country have become even more frequent. In fact, it will be quite odd if I don’t see lots of protesters out tomorrow. But wait, he explains, they prefer not to be referred to as “protesters”.

The demonstrators self-identify as the people’s true representatives, because Nepal’s politicians are generally accepted to be out to serve themselves. “Democracy” here is a far cry from what we know it to be in the U.S. (though such a statement can’t be fairly made without acknowledging the issues, obstacles, gross missteps and mishaps that occur in our own system as well); the options of meeting with representatives and/or contacting them via phone calls/emails/letters are simply nonexistent. As it stands, there is essentially one way in which the people feel they can communicate with their government: upend public order and stage mass demonstrations/strikes, causing destruction and violence if necessary.

We reach the guesthouse and continue our conversation over a dinner of pizza-flavored Pringles and Mountain Dew. Asbin points to the unlit candles on the table and notes his surprise that we’ve made it this far without having to reach for a match, as only four hours of electricity per day is the norm in Kathmandu. The new citywide power schedule, posted on the refrigerator, promises that daily power outages will now be limited to 90 minutes total each day. Perhaps owing to the new prime minister, the promise has held true thus far – but there is little faith in the longevity and sustainability of such a change in a simple public good like electricity. In fact, most people believe that the abrupt shift in leadership won’t change anything at all in the long run. Elected officials rarely do.

I try to thank my hosts for their generosity and hospitality in Nepali, but like the democratic reforms in this country, my efforts fall short.

As I read through the profiles and bios of the people I will soon be working alongside in Nepal, a surreal sense of admiration overwhelms me. As a student and advocate of human rights, I have a tendency to gravitate toward reading and watching material that showcases horrendous atrocities, civil strife, and the like; as such, I’m frequently baffled at the truly monstrous way in which some human beings inflict suffering on others. However, I live for the moments that shift that bafflement in the opposite direction – moments that leave me in awe at the level of strength and resilience that humans are capable of displaying, despite the most unimaginable circumstances of adversity. This is one of those moments.

The Dalit journalists with whom I’ll be working at the JMC have been through hell and back. Here’s just one example: a former teacher was brutally attacked – and nearly killed – merely for being a Dalit in an important professional role. After this terrifying experience, he decided to become a journalist and work to fight human rights abuses within the caste system, despite the risky and highly taxing nature of the work. In addition to suffering from economic marginalization and physical/violent abuses, Dalits are subjected to an acute level of humiliation, insult, and general dehumanization. Being forced to live a life of shame – when their only crime committed is being born into the wrong caste – is what I’d imagine to be the hardest aspect for outsiders to empathize with.

Discrimination, which can seem to be a universal human value in itself, has an unfortunately ubiquitous quality in the world (albeit with nuances in form and degree), but it is rare to find circumstances as extreme as Nepal’s in this day and age. This deeply entrenched oppression within the caste system has persisted for more than 800 years, yet Dalits continue to put up an unrelenting fight in the form of civil society activity. Given these onerous circumstances, my respect and awe of the tenacity in these individuals is inexplicable. I can only imagine how this distant admiration will solidify when I have the privilege of witnessing the JMC journalists’ courage and strength translate into action.

This trip will be my fourth major visit to a developing country, and my third to an area affected by armed conflict. By now I’ve learned to stop myself from having any expectations, or even a modicum of confidence in anticipating how life in the country will be – regardless of how much pre-departure preparation and frantic studying I do. One thing I am certain of, though, is the sensory upheaval (Kathmandu is notorious for its “sensory overload” factor) that will come in the form of new sounds, smells, tastes, sights, and in this case air pressure – as well as the brand-new perceptions, emotions, and reflections that I know the experience will bring.

I’m finding that the standard sense of feeling lost, small, insignificant, and generally awkward in a spanking-new location is growing on me. While I previously regarded this requisite initiation process as equal parts daunting and exciting, I now find that the latter outweighs the former by a long shot. The uniquely sobering and humbling effects that only fieldwork can yield have become oddly addicting – and I can’t wait to be thrown into the disorienting microcosm of this mysterious little country.