Four years on and off in Nepal, and the only Tibetan name I ever got was from two drunk middle-aged dudes at a teashop, one night late when I went in to buy some boiling water. Don’t remember what it was, just that the translation was something along the lines of “happy-go-lucky.” Somehow it didn’t seem appropriate to use this name in my truck with kids and moms, nor at the monastery office, so it just stayed a page in my old everything-book.
First day in the field, I get a Toposa name. What should we call her? Calls Julius/Nakarang to the crowd. Suggestions are pitched. Nabeyo? NaBEYo? NaBEYo! Clap clap clap NABEYO clap clap clap NABEYO clap clap clap NABEYO.
One woman brings me two little rosy-orange-but-unripe tomatoes. No no, Christine Murphy, these are the fruit you are named after. Na- is the lady prefix, -abeyo are these fruits. Miss Lady-Fruit. You are the same color, see? We all walk through the village, stilted huts that are mostly roof, and that in concentric layers of close thatch. The tip of each sways in its own direction, so that compounds look like the houses are busy with gossiping. One woman brought out another handful of Christine-fruits for me – This is how to eat them, she shows me (with vigor!): chew off the skin, spit it out. Worry it down to the kernel – now break that and eat the seed inside. There is also a dance and a song that involves jumping up and down, shown to me by two or three other old ladies. We are all delirious with laughter.
We look at the village books, ask questions; a baby grabs my shirt-shoulder in his fat, smudgy fist. Another woman bounces my boob and then points at her own. Perky v. pendulous, she frowns. No babies, I mime. Baby? All the way to my knees. We giggle.
The lightning in storms nearby lit up the dinnertable after dark.
I miss your wondrous stories like this one.
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