I lived with a Shaman and his family in a mountain village south of Kathmandu.  I wanted to document and learn about the power of belief.  I wanted to see ritual and design be infused with a transformative meaning.  I wanted to be shocked culturally, and possibly spiritually.  All these things happened.  My interpreter also lost his mind.  This story isn't formal.  It's a personal experience that interweaves moments of insight, but also trivial humour

The sick woman’s eyes rolled back into her head--but they stayed open almost forcefully. White eye-balls stared blankly at the mud ceiling.

Then she began to convulse. Like a puppet tied to a drum beat.

Her body slumped backward unnaturally, falling into her husband’s arms, as her own flailed and grasped at the invisible. The woman’s once timid demeaner had been replaced instantaneously with a psychotic, half-conscious seizure. Although her eyes were vacant, her shrieks were full and ear-piercing. But then she suddenly stopped and lay limp in her husband arms.

The sick woman wasn't the only one who looked horrified: I was sitting in front of the hut patio watching this ‘healing ceremony’ take place and my eyes were the size of baseballs. I turned to my interpreter, Dinesh, with a giant question mark creased into my clueless, western face. He was smoking, as usual, and staring absent-mindedly at the scene. Finally registering my stare, he ashed his cigarette and said nonchalantly, “Yes. The bad spirit is with her now.”

The woman was practically frothing at the mouth as her body moved erratically to the mantras. I look around at the small audience of family and villagers gathered for the ceremony– no one was uncomfortable. They watch in understanding and familiarity. Some reminiscent of restless teenagers sitting politely through a family gathering.

It was only four minutes into the healing ceremony and I was already questioning my ability to make decisions. Decisions like inserting myself into a remote Nepali hill-village full of exorcisms. Decisions like hiring a freshly recovered heroin addict off the streets as my interpreter.  

In truth there really was no pressing reason for me to be there. In Nepal. In a tiny hill-village called Tutung, 8 hours east of Kathmandu. It was a village where many still had yet to see a westerner in person.  Their gift was me: an awkward 24 year old photographer who wanted to witness something.  A change in scenery from good-natured banalities and shopping cart conversations.  The answer was obvious-- live alone with a Shaman in a remote hill- village.  A New-Age wet dream.

Through my experience I saw things that still make me question reality, or at very least, psychology.  And I also learned that dried buffalo feces can be used to wash dishes.  Which subsequently lead to my very own stomach illness be healed by the shaman in a dimly lit hut.  But that's only part of this story.  Something that ended up taking a major theme was my decision to hire Dinesh, a Nepali guide I met on the streets of Kathmandu, to act as my translator for the week.