Ramakrishna the Comedian

Ramakrishna the Clown

"Why not? "
This is the most common English phrase I hear while traveling around Nepal. I'm not sure where it comes from, whether it reflects a deep held belief of the people or whether it's something that has just caught on, like "Oh My God!" has caught on in most other non-English speaking places in the world. Of course, "Oh My God!" just wouldn't do here. You would have to specify which of the hundreds of Hindu gods specifically you were referring to.
"Would you like to have some tea?".
"Why not? "

"Can you help me?"
"Why not? "

""Can I take your picture?"
"Why not? "

"Can I play a song for you?"
"Why not? "

As I was walking along the ridge road from Saragot to Nandarot, near the city of Pokhara, on either side, the valley sloped steeply into the valleys below. The rich farmland was lovingly terraced for growing rice during the monsoons and vegetables at other times. I passed a smattering of shacks and dwellings here and there, before I passed a farmer entering his fields carrying a wooden contraption that I later learned was a yoke. He was anywhere from 35 to 55, one of those ageless people, strong, simply dressed, but with a beautiful big grey eyes and a big droopy moustache. The kind of person you see and say, "Now there's a face." It was a face with a lot of character, but also funny face. A face born to make others laugh. When our paths crossed, he looked at me and raised his eyebrows in a questioning gesture. I had to smile. What did he want? I decided, he was wondering in a very kind and thoughtful way, if I, obviously a tourist, would like to watch him yoke his oxen. Later I found out there was more to it than that. I hesitated for a moment and then thought,"Why not?", and followed him.
Basic farming is fascinating. To me it's almost a basic part of my humanness. After all, isn't it what partially defines our species, this transition from hunter-gather to basic agriculture? The locals seem to sense that we "city folk" are fascinated by the old ways and they don't seem to mind us looking on. Why just the other day I had sat and watched and old farmer repair his plough for 20 minutes in the field after it had broken off. Here was another great chance. Why not?
I followed him through his compound, past the gate past a tied-up bull, into the field. Standing at the top of the large hill, this small pod was about 50 meters long and 20 meters wide. There was another man there, his brother, and 2 oxen stood patiently, stupidly waiting. I'm sorry, not to be too species-centric, but oxen must be some of the dumbest animals in the world. Why with their massive power and dangerous horns, they could run havoc at any moment and take control, but they just stand there, docile like ...like cows. The kind farmer instructed me to sit down over there, away from the bull, for a front row seat of him yoking the oxen. His brother even brought me a straw mat to sit on. I felt like royalty.
The yoke consisted of one larger piece of wood (about the size of a 2 by 4) with 4 smaller rod-like pieces wedged in downward at intervals of about 20 centimeters and a length of about half a meter. 2 of these fit neatly over the narrow lower neck of the ox. The trick was to get both oxen in it at the same time. Amazingly, the two farmers walked in between the massive hunks of muscle, pushing them this way and that like big babies, slapping them with a stick, tugging, pulling, herding. It was amazing to watch them move these beasts around. They had a kind of special simple language they shared (it had to be simple). . Also there was a whole chorus of sounds, coaxes, whoops, and Nepali phrases that were used. "hunya, wungchi, gumpcha, yaaaa" a few times one of the ox turned and ran away, but the patient farmers, walked after him (he was to stupid to know where to go) and brought him back. Within ten minutes they had both oxen in at the same time. Then quickly before they escaped, they tied ropes under and they fastened them over onto pegs on top and whoilla, a team of oxen. Tied tougher like that, they had no choice but to follow the farmers wishes. I clapped. Amazing really and sat back and watched with pleasure as the man started to plow the small plot of land. The farmer looked over at me and raised his eyebrows comically and wagged his head in the way Nepalis do. Was it good? He watched me as he plowed the field, making a deep furrow in the rich brown Earth. He let go of the plow for a second and the oxen instantly stopped. He put his hands one over the other and wiggled and wagged his head. What? Then it hit me. That was it. He wanted me to play for him. The sound of my saxophone had carried all the way here from the last village down the road 100 meters where i had just played not 15 minutes before, and he wanted to hear for himself. Sure. Why not? I usually played for larger audiences, at least 8, but I was only too happy to play for 2 farmers and 2 oxen at the top of a terraced mountain towering over the stunning valley below. Why the hell not?
I thought for a moment. If this were a story, what would be the ideal ending? Many people would come? The oxen would stop and smile? My dream woman would come out of a shack and look at me with loving eyes? I tried to think of something amazing, but couldn't think of anything good. I took out my instrument. I was a little concerned that the sound might startle the oxen or the bull and they would run amok. The farmers assured me the oxen were ok, they knew their oxen, but we did take the precaution of moving 20 meters further away from the bull. With the first notes of the horn the man smiled devilishly. He closed his eyes, taking the music in. The other man, his brother, also listened whole-heartedly to the music. They were simply delighted in a way a small child is delighted the first time he sees you blow the seeds off a dandelion. And they felt the feeling of the music as if they were drinking some delicious cold beer on a hot day. Ahhhhh. The farmer with the amazing face seemed drunk with the sounds and started swaying slightly to the music. And then suddenly, he broke out and started dancing. Right there in the partly plowed field of rich soil, behind the yoked oxen, He was dancing beautifully with arms raised slightly turning from side to side. He looked good, like Zorba the Greek. There were peels of laughter. More people appeared,his uncle and aunt, his 2 sons, his aged father and mother walking with canes, they all lived there together and worked the fields. Another tall strong man had walked up the hill from the fields a bit so he could see. 2 middle aged women dressed in traditional Nepali saris and blouses with many earrings, emerged from the farmhouse, and the laughter rang out. This man obviously was used to making people laugh. He was a natural, a Chaplain, a Keaton. I kept playing, and he kept dancing, in front of all the people, the mighty Himalayan mountains a few valleys over, the powerful oxen, and the open sky on that half plowed terrace, and it seemed like the most natural and funny thing in the world. He danced with poise and feeling, and that made it even funnier. He was really enjoying the music and the dance, not just joking. We all did,and when it was over we all felt satisfied. In broken English I told him, you shouldn't be a farmer, you should be a comedian. "You farmer no. You TV. funny man". And somehow everyone understood and nodded agreement. I started to put my instrument away and as I did I thought that life's ending to the story was much more imaginative than mine, way better. The funny farmer turned his attention back to plowing and I watched happily.
Then a question tugged at my consciousness, like a tap on the windowpane. Why not? Why not? What was it? When he came around again I waved to him and then pointed to the plow and then to me and then to the field, wiggling my fingers around to represent grinding up dirt. He understood at once and laughed heartily. Without a moments hesitation, he waved me over behind him. The few people watching were all laughing and talking excitedly. I stepped carefully over the soft plowed furrows next to him. He handed me a long bamboo stick and gave me a quick lesson in oxen steering. You want them to go right, hit the left one on the left side. You want to go left, hit the right one on the right side. You want them to stop, just stop, they don't really want to work anyway. You want them to go fast, hit them on their butts and make a sound. I tried it. I tentatively whacked the left animal on the left side. He adjusted his walk slightly. I did it. It was fun, and amazing. Then it struck me, I was hitting an animal that outweighed me 10 times over. He could run over me without even slowing down. I looked over at the farmer. He nodded his encouragement. I did it again. They really responded. I could make them go exactly where I wanted them to go. Of course I did make a slightly crooked line a few times, but that as all in the name of creativity and a bit of inexperience. As we walked up and down the rows he would occasionally call out encouragement and coax them to go faster. I just repeated whatever he said to the great amusement of the assembled onlookers.

"hunya",
"hunya"

" wungchi,"
" wungchi,"

" gumpcha,"
" gumpcha,"

" yaaaa"
" yaaaa"

Sometimes after a silence of 5 or 10 seconds, I just repeated one of the old ones
" yaaaa, gumpcha", and the guffaws started up again.
Steering was fun, but I wanted more. I pointed to the plough itself and he shook his head doubtfully, but agreed. I took hold of the wooden plow. At the top was a handle, and I held onto that.
"wungchi". Slap,
and we started off. It was surprisingly easy. All I had to do was balance the plough, keep it from twisting left or right. The oxen did all the work as they pulled the plow with incredible ease through the dirt about 1/3 of a meter deep. There was a pleasant satisfying crunchy sound as the plough dug in. The rich funky smell that surrounded me felt familiar and natural, as if I had done this already many times. I plowed a few rows while the farmer walked cautiously behind smiling. Then the oxen stopped suddenly. I had had enough. I was grinning from ear to ear. The farmer clapped me on the back. I held out my hand, "10 rupees" and he laughed his deep natural laugh that spilled down into the valley of his as yet unploughed fields.