Deconstructionist Nepal

We got up early to see the sunrise and take some footage of the temples. But there wasn't much of a sunrise. I suppose I've been spoiled lately with some spectacular dawn displays in the Himalayas where the crimson heavens appeared to be cracking open. My friend Liam borrowed a video camera from work and I've enjoyed hunting for distinctively Nepalese shots with him. Flapping prayer flags, spinning prayer wheels, women carrying baskets strapped to their foreheads, that sort of thing.

I had just been lamenting the morning's non-event of a sunrise when I noticed a young water buffalo lying on the bricks with its legs hobbled together. A small crowd was starting to gather around. I spotted knives and large basins. I knew what was about to happen even if the beast did not. Liam, focused on the temple, hadn't noticed the animal yet. “Liam, come here,” I called. “I think they're about to slaughter this water buffalo.”

And they did. A sharp knife punctured its throat. Another incision was made lower down on its neck. Blood poured into a basin. Steam rose out of the two cuts into the cold morning air. The creature struggled a little and made a few noises, but then fell quiet. I kept thinking it must be dead by now and then it would surprise me with a convulsion. I thought it might put up more of a fight, but even for a large animal there is a limit to what you can do when you're tied up, restrained by several people and literally bleeding buckets. Liam had asked permission to videotape and recorded the whole thing. This was not the "Beautiful Nepal" his work wanted, but it's not every day you stumble upon butchery and we thought it would make an interesting short film. It was certainly fascinating watching it all take place in front of me. The small children were riveted. Liam said it was different watching through the viewfinder than seeing it all for real. Perhaps the cameraman is a film's first spectator and is therefore one step removed.

The water buffalo's head was separated from its body and placed ceremonially in front of a small shrine. The offering was blessed and a candle was placed on its head. Straw was arranged along the beast's flank and set on fire. This was repeated again and again in order to burn off the fur. Men heaved the carcass onto its other side and created more fires. By this point most of the children had lost interest and walked away. Liam was offered what he initially feared must be hot blood but thankfully turned out to be tea. I sipped mine and watched the blaze. At what point does something cease to be an animal? Is it the moment of death, when its head is cut off or sometime later when its innards have been removed and its bones are hacked apart with a hatchet?

Wishing to warm up, we went to our favourite cafe in the village, a family-run place with superb milk tea. When we returned half an hour later, they were at the internal organs/ hatchet stage of the operation. The stomach the size of a small beanbag, was spliced open to reveal what appeared to be a lawn's worth of partially digested hay. We watched until the end. Everything was carefully cut and washed with hot water. Nothing was wasted. From start to finish the whole process took two hours. The short film will cover everything in about three minutes. Meat requires a lot of work. I was struck by the process of deconstruction. The village men transformed a living, breathing water buffalo into a series of parts. They turned an animal into raw pieces; ingredients.

Later in the day, Krishna, our guesthouse owner, accompanied me to a fabric shop. I told him I was interested in having two traditional Nepalese tops made for myself. These wrap-around, tie at the side, shirts are still worn by many women in rural parts of the country. They're form-fitting, distinctive and I think very flattering. I get excited by fabric stores. All those different colours and textures. I selected a heavy black and red print and a retro design of rhododendrons, the country's national flower. Krishna brought me to his own tailor, an old man with a hand-crank machine who has sewn Krishna's clothes since he was a little boy.

The tailor's wife measured me and the tailor set to work, eschewing the tape measure, deftly inching his hands and fingers across the fabric. He had no pattern. The shapes were in his head. He swiftly cut the forms which were to become sleeves, front, back and darts, out of my material while we watched. Once again Liam's video camera came out. It was the opposite of the water buffalo. I wanted to record the transformation from cloth to clothes. Parts to a functioning whole. Constructionism.

In the West, our animals are slaughtered and butchered out of sight. The process is discreetly hidden from view. Our clothes are now made in the developing world, often here in Asia. We buy meat and clothes from shops as finished products. We don't get to watch patterns being cut. It happens somewhere else.

At the village tailor's, a crowd of young children gathered around. They can see clothes made every day, so naturally the magic occurring on the sewing machine wasn't what piqued their interest. They were watching me.

- Panauti, Nepal