Great American Road Trip: St. Cloud, Minnesota, yak meat and Hoopers’ Christmas Tree Farm

by Jamie Rhein on

When we pulled into the driveway of our friends’ house in St. Cloud, Minnesota, as part of our Great American Road trip to Montana, we didn’t have any plans except to visit. The last time we saw them was at our house in Columbus, and since then they had moved from State College, Pennsylvania to St. Cloud.

As with any visit, there’s always something new to find out. about the town where friends land. People who live there know the insider info that may not show up in a guidebook. Such was the case when I found out were were having yak meat for dinner.

I’ve been to Nepal where yaks seem as common as cows. While there, I never had yak meat. As it turns out Hoopers’ Christmas Tree Farm in Cold Spring, Minnesota has a herd of 60 or so yak making this the largest yak herd in the eastern part of the U.S. Who knew?

Our friends have toured the farm and loved it. John Hooper, the farm’s owner has worked with The Yak Company in China as a consultant. While there, he lived with Tibetans and, as a result, acquired an interest in Tibetan culture. My friend says that the ranch reflects this exchange.

Hooper sells his yak meat at various farmers’ markets in the area. We ate yak sausages, hot dogs and marinated meat. All quite delicious. Here’s a link to the page that tells all about yak farming.

Photo of Hooper and one of his yaks is by Lucille Guinta-Bates who was kind enough to email it to me.

Letter from Nepal: Watching HBO with a living goddess (part 2)

by Jerry Guo on

Patan, Nepal–On this blistering May day, the royal kumari, Preeti, doesn’t bother to show up at the third-story window. And why should she? Last year, the independent girl refused to give tika – a blessing in the form of a red mark on the forehead – to the prime minister, who was attempting to take over from the unpopular king the annual ceremonial duty of receiving a blessing for the nation.

While any Hindu or Buddhist believer may enter to receive a blessing from the kumari each morning, Westerners of uncertain faith are strictly prohibited from even entering the inner palace. My mere request for an interview greatly offends the palace caretaker, who angrily shoos my translator away.

So I head to nearby Bhaktapur, the seat of a once powerful kingdom in the valley and home to a kumari reported to be the most progressive – and accessible – in Nepal. The city has escaped Kathmandu’s building boom and is relatively unchanged, with cobblestone streets and charming squares packed with temples. I eventually find the kumari’s home tucked away in one of the myriad back alleyways.
Unlike Preeti or Chanira, 11-year-old Sajai Shakya is known to lead an almost normal life – a living goddess who goes to school, plays outside, and even visits the US (her unprecedented trip last June almost led to the removal of her title). Her parents, a marketing agent and a housewife, defend the middle path between protecting a girl’s adolescence and fulfilling a religious obligation.

“The kumaris should be allowed to go out,” says her mother, Rukmini Shakya. “If they are confined to their homes for as long as eight years, how can they interact with the world after this part of their lives?”

And I discover, to my dismay, that the Shakya family walks its talk. I’ve come all this way to meet a kumari, only to discover that Sajai had resigned earlier this year to enroll in a prestigious boarding school in Kathmandu.

It’s at Patan, the third major city in the valley, that I come face to face with Chanira Bajracharya the HBO-loving living goddess. Chanira is already in her throne room, decked in full kumari regalia: elegant red garb (she cannot wear any other color), flowery headdress, thick silver necklaces, and a painted third eye that Hindus believe can see for miles – and into the future.

She’s forbidden to smile, though to show any negative emotions would be a deadly omen to the guest. But the 13-year-old seems amused, invoking all her godly powers not to smile at the sight of a Westerner attempting to navigate the protocol for greeting a goddess.

Alas, her mother, Champa Bajracharya, steps in and informs me that outsiders must not corrupt Chanira’s purity by attempting conversation. That’s why she has no friends, explains Mrs. Bajracharya, “she’s not allowed outside.”

Her mother says she always knew her daughter was different. Standing in Chanira’s presence, I sense a sort of dignity and sensitivity you don’t normally see in a ninth grader.

Right before leaving Nepal, I meet 25-year-old Rashmila Shakya, a former goddess who who seems like the girl next door. She is the first kumari to graduate from college, earning a degree in computer science last year. When Rashmila left the Kathmandu palace in 1991 as a 12-year-old, she knew only enough to be placed in second grade.

The two royal kumaris since Rashmila have received better private tutors, though they’re still not allowed to attend school or live with their families.

She regrets not receiving a proper education, but staunchly defends the institution: “If the kumaris started to go to school, then what would be the difference between a kumari and any other girl? The tradition must be modernized with time, but that doesn’t mean the whole system should be changed.”

In a wistful tone, she recalls her former position as a source of spiritual healing. She fondly talks about the 6-year-old mute boy, who was able to speak shortly after drinking water that had been poured over her feet.

But for Rashmila, now dressed in stylish jeans and sporting pink nail polish, that is a past life.

In a noticeably relieved tone, she declares, “My life now is completely normal.”

All images from a BBC slideshow of the kumaris.

Letter from Nepal: Watching HBO with a living goddess

by Jerry Guo on


Patan, Nepal—Like any typical schoolgirl, 13-year-old Chanira Bajracharya struggles to finish hours of homework each day. That doesn’t stop her from stealing away to watch TV (she enjoys HBO; her younger brothers often change it to Nickelodeon) or use the computer. She even has Barbies, but now that she’s older, painting has replaced organizing tea parties as her favorite pastime.

The similarities end there. To start, no one – including her family – may scold her. Chanira eats whatever she desires, though she’s yet to abuse this power by demanding an endless supply of ice cream. And don’t even mention chores.

It may seem like she’s hit the jackpot, but in exchange for this life of relative luxury, she’s forbidden to leave her five-story home, save for religious holidays. She must also endure a constant stream of Hindu followers who come seeking her healing powers or to snap a photo of her.

You see, she’s no mere mortal: Chanira is one of three main kumaris, or “living goddesses,” here in the fabled Kathmandu Valley. The practice of worshiping young girls–and then casting them aside once they reach puberty–is unique to this Himalayan nation.

Indeed, kumaris–Buddhists that are worshiped by both Buddhists and Hindus–symbolize “an amazing political accommodation” here where Asia meets the Indian subcontinent, says Nick Gier, former professor of philosophy and Eastern religions at the University of Idaho. “I stand in awe of how the Nepali have put religion and politics together creatively to get the Buddhists and Hindus to live peacefully together.”

But this is no happily ever after princess tale. With the end of Nepal’s 240-year-old monarchy last month, there is talk in the newly established constituent assembly of abolishing the whole religious tradition.

“The kumari is not an essential institution for the new Nepal,” Maoist lawmaker Janardan Sharm, declared, while another reportedly called the kumari an “evil symbol.”

And Nepal’s Supreme Court is expected to issue a decision this week in a lawsuit by human rights lawyers contending that the strict cossetting of kumaris is a form of child abuse.

I’ve come here to the land of Everest to meet the three main living goddesses before they go the way of former King Gyanendra. But getting past those pearly gates of heaven proved quite the challenge for a Western mortal.

I begin in the capital, Kathmandu, where cows, considered sacred to the vast Hindu majority, have as much right to the road as the overflowing public buses that ply the labyrinth of rutted streets. In the center of this chaos is the three-story royal kumari palace, its wooden walls and windows full of centuries-old intricate carvings.

It’s 4:15 p.m., and a couple of dozen tourists and locals are milling about the garden courtyard, waiting to catch a glimpse of the most famous living goddess of all, the royal kumari. She’s 15 minutes late.

Four Nepalese college students cluster in a corner. They’ve traveled seven hours by bus from Pokhara to see Preeti Shakya, the fickle 10-year-old. “We have been learning about the kumari since childhood,” says Neha Surung, dressed up for the occasion. “It’s a long tradition so we just believe.”

But it turns out that even devout worshipers, like Ms. Surung, have trouble untangling the mysteries and myths behind these living goddesses. Many believe that marrying a former kumari is fatal – a real hurdle in a young woman’s return to society. And the kumari selection process – by Buddhist priests -– is a bit enigmatic, too. Rashmila Shakya, a former royal kumari who I meet later (and who is not related to Preeti), explains the selection process this way: When the current kumari starts menstruating, young girls from a specific caste of goldsmith families are brought to the king’s priest. Whoever fits a list of 32 physical “perfections” – including having the voice of a duck and the body of a Banyan tree – becomes accepted as the reincarnation of the Hindu Goddess Taleju.

To be continued in part 2 tomorrow.

Big in Japan: Tibet unrest changes Everest climbing routes

by Matthew Firestone on

From San Francisco to London and Paris to India, protestors are taking to the streets to demonstrate against China’s hosting of the Olympic Games. Angered by the Chinese government’s refusal to meet with the Dalai Lama, as well as the continued suppression of human rights in potential breakaway regions, the world is seeking to punish China on the eve of its long-anticipated coming out party.

For travelers on the ground in China, independent tourism has never been more difficult, especially since parts of the country have now been entirely closed off to the outside world. Following wave of violence that commenced on March 14th, the Chinese government has entirely barred tourists from entering Tibet. As a so-called ‘autonomous region,’ non-Chinese nationals must obtain special entry permits for Tibet.

Sadly, it’s looking like the ‘Roof of the World’ may remain in relative isolation until the Olympic Games have passed, which is a huge blow at a time when tourism in the region was beginning to flourishing. Here in Japan, this was highlighted recently in the news when Mr. Yuichiro Miura, the 75 year-old thrill seeker who once skied down Everest using a parachute as a brake, announced that he was changing his Everest climbing route.

At the young and spry age of 75, Mr. Miura (alongside his son) was planning on climbing Everest from the Chinese side in a bid to regain his title as the oldest man to climb Everest. However, despite all of the preparations that he has made, his climbing permits were canceled following the unrest in Tibet.

Mr Miura first held the record as the oldest person to climb Everest when he reached the top in 2003 at the age of 70. Although his record was broken just three years later, he is determined to regain it despite having to change his proposed route at the final hour. According to Mr. Miura, who is presently in the Nepali capital of Kathmandu, “We are here to climb and so we will.”

Of course, would-climbers on Everest are also saddened by the current political climate in Nepal, which is threatening to topple the nation’s troubled monarchy. And, China is also exerting pressure to not allow climbers to scale Everest until after the Olympic torch has been carried up and down the summit. Needless to say, a protest at the summit of Everest would not be a great PR moment for the Chinese government!

Despite all of these hurdles however, Mr. Miura is confident that he will shatter the Everest climbing record by the end of May. Mr. Miura is best known for having skied down Everest in 1970, using a parachute as a brake, footage of which later appeared in an Oscar-winning documentary. However, his latest bid for worldwide fame is perhaps even more challenging, given that Mr. Miura is a septuagenarian.

Then again, in a country where living beyond the age of 100 is a pretty common feat, perhaps Mr. Miura shouldn’t be too upset if his travel plans are canceled this year…

** Mr. Miura’s photo was taken by the Agence French-Press (AFP). Other images were courtesy of the WikiCommons Media Project. **

Hulk Hogan, Osama Bin Laden and a pair of Red Wings

by Jamie Rhein on

I heard part of an interview with Morgan Spurlock, the creator of the documentary, “Where in the World is Osama bin Laden” yesterday. The film, which opens today, sounds as if it might be more travelogue with a twist of the Middle East. Spurlock visits places as varied as Morocco, Pakistan, Israel, Saudi Arabia and Afghanistan and chats with a variety of those countries’ citizens along the way in order to sort of find Osama bin Laden and take a look-see in the countries where he has been.

Spurlock’s interview comments about wresting reminded me of one of my husband’s encounters with Tibetan monks in Nepal. The interviewer and Spurlock talked about how people everywhere, no matter which country, know that championship wrestling is serious business. My husband, who wrestled in high school, attracts wrestling type fans wherever he travels.

As a rather large man with huge feet–size 14, he is unable to escape notice. People, particularly in countries like Vietnam, like to poke and prod him. Because he wears Red Wing work boots, his shoes gain notice. Fill one with cement and you’d have quite the doorstop. Even without the cement, it’s a doorstop. Anyway, when we were in Nepal and stopped by a Tibetan monastery outside of Pokhara, like always, my husband left his shoes outside the door while we went inside. When he came out, he saw a group of monks gathered around his boots.

One of the monks reached down to pick one up and seemed to be testing its weight, marveling. Another, who knew English, said, “Can we ask you a question?”

My husband leaned in thinking he might learn a bit about enlightenment,”Yes?” He waited for the pearl.

“Hulk Hogan? Is he real?”

“Sure,” said my husband, which produced a round of beaming smiles, nods and back slapping, as if my husband and Hulk are best buds. As for the pearl of wisdom? Here’s what I think. Sometimes, it doesn’t take much to please.