Llew Wanders the World

(I didn’t realize that title rhymed when I thought of it. Really, I mean it.)

I almost didn’t make it to Nepal. When King Gyanendra dismissed the parliament and took direct control of the government on February 1, he also shut down the airport and lines of communication out of the country. Between this and the ongoing Maoist insurgency in the kingdom, I started to question the safety (indeed, event he feasibility) of travel there. Before too long, however, things had quietened down a bit, and while all was not back to normal in Nepal, the airport had re-opened, and travel there seemed relatively safe and catching my Thai Airways flight to Kathmandu once again seemed like a reasonable option.

After finishing my writing in Bangkok, I had a quietly pleasant evening, enjoying my last Thai curry and watching a movie at my guesthouse before turning in. (That got done slower than I’d thought, since I stayed up watching Allison play with the Thai kids staying there for a good hour.)

The next morning I woke up nice and early and set about finding my way to the airport. I couldn’t find any private minibuses headed there (they all need to be booked in advance) so I had to settle on the government bus which, while more expensive, was almost empty and had really good air-conditioning (which was desparately needed, even at 07:30.)

This left me with 17 baht for breakfast, making the only option a cheap pad Thai. After gobbling this down I climbed aboard and we were off for the airport. Traffic was horrible for a little while, but we got there without too much trouble. I had a bit of time so I went to the Lufthansa office and changed a couple of my flight dates (I’ll mention again how pleased I am with the Star Alliance RTW ticket. I’ve now changed one of these flights three times and had no hassles at all.)

At 9:45 I boarded the Thai Airways 777 (it was about half empty) and was on my way to Nepal. The flight was uneventful, except, perhaps for the fact that the Thai airways staff seem intent on getting their passengers thoroughly soused on their flights. Over the course of my three hour flight I was presented with two gin and tonics, three glasses of wine and two Singha beers.

It was cloudy for most of the flight, and so I didn’t see much of the himalayas, but the ceiling was high, so I got a couple fo wonderful views of the
Kathmandu valley, then of the sprawling city itself. From the air it looked as though the buildings are packed shoulder to shoulder over the entire area of the city with not a single road separating them. While this wasn’t entirely true I’d soon learn why the city looked that way.

Thankfully I’d started refusing drink refills well before landing and had no trouble obtaining my Nepal tourist visa and collecting my bags.

I’d sworn to myself that I would find my own way into the city and pick a guesthouse without the aid of touts, but when I was offered a free taxi ride into the city (normally 250 rupees, or about US$3.50) for simply looking at a place, I couldn’t help myself.

We wound our way through Kathmandu’s streets. I was delighted and amazed by what I saw. We passed by the big royal palace compound, past ancient looking houses and a long row of barbers plying their trade out on the street near the palace walls.

We turned into what appeared to be a narrow laneway (though I later learned that it was the main street of the tourist area of Thamel) and then into an even more narrow driveway. As it turned out, the guesthouse we arrived at was reasonably priced and very pleasant, so I was happy to set my pack down in a room then head out into the streets of Thamel, Kathmandu.
Before I left the guesthouse I was invited to sit down for a cup of Nepali tea with a couple fo the workers. The fellows I sat with were very friendly and the tea tasted wonderful (a chai-like blend of tea leaves, cloves, cinammon, black pepper and goat’s milk.) I asked them where I could find a shop to buy new trekking boots and they replied “more or less anywhere.”

I hadn’t even made it out of the guesthouse courtyard when I ran into my second novel Nepali experience: rain. As noted before, a few tiny drops on my last day in Bangkok was the first rain I’d felt in almost three months. So excited was I to feel the drops on my head again that I wandered out into the street without even putting up the hood on my raincoat. The rain stopped before too long, leaving the streets bright and clear, but it was still wonderfully refreshing while it lasted.

The seemingly flippant response about where to find outdoor gear shops turned out to be entirely serious. In Thamel, about every fourth shop is a mini-Mountain Equipment Co-op (the others are trekking/travel agencies, little hole-in-the-wall restaurants and handicraft shops.) I headed down the narrow, winding main street, amazed at the almost frenzied pace. It was hard to believe that traffic could move at all here!

I tried out a few shops, and discovered that while most types of gear is readily available, boots are one of the harder items to come by. Many of the shops had only second hand or low quality pairs, but I finally found what I was looking for. I was convinced I’d found the pair I wanted, but wanted to do a bit of comparison shopping first. This proved tricky, as I had to spend a couple of hours wandering around to find even one more shop that had the same pair for sale. Finally I did discover one, and armed with my new knowledge wne tback to the first shop and (after a large amount of indecisiveness on my part about the exact size and the colour of the boots) left the shop with what I wanted for about half the price I’d have paid in Canada.

New boots in hand (or rather on feet–I’d purchased immediately on arrival so I could break them in a bit before wearing them on a trek) I headed back towards the guesthouse. On the way there I was stopped by a young Nepali man who beckoned me into his uncle’s gem shop. As I’d walked around the streets of Thamel, the invitations to look at handicrafts, book treks or purchase trekking gear had been pretty much constant. This fellow, however seemed genuinely friendly and made it very clear that he just wanted to chat and wasn’t looking for a sale.

Raja (that was his name) and I sat and talked for quite a while about Canada, Nepal, his western friends, and about the differences Nepal and southeast Asia. As we chatted, a constant flow of sweet spiced Nepali tea was provided by a young woman who brought in trays full of the stuff from the tea shop next door.

By the time we parted the two of us were getting along pretty well and we’d made arrangements to meet later in the evening for food and/or drinks.

I continued to explore Thamel, winding my way through the bustling, narrow streets, staring at the beautiful buildings whose ancient age was belied by the lighted signs that seemed to cover every inch of their fronts.

As I wandered, a couple of young boys approached me and started chatting. After talking with me a bit they challenged me to give them countries whose capitals they’d then name. While they missed the Cook Islands and Uzbekistan, they did me one better by pointing out that Georgia’s capital was no longer Tblisi, but Abkhazeti.

After a bit more walking and recitation of platitudes about the wonders of friendship, their true intentions became clear. They began asking for money, and then for some milk and biscuits. This would have been all well and good, except for the fact that when we entered a shop, the powdered milk supposedly cost 550 rupees (about $9 Canadian) while the biscuits were a mere 350. They got quite upset about my refusal to pay these fraudulently marked up prices, continuing to badger me, even after I’d given them a 25 rupee note, which they were lucky to have received given the scam they’d tried to pull on me.

After a rest at my guesthouse I returned to Raja’s shop, and while he wasn’t there, I sat and chatted with his uncle for a while, drinking still more tea, then went and sat outside on the steps across from the shop with a couple of his younger friends. One of them played the guitar, and we sat and talked and sang for a while, drinking yet more tea. The offering of tea to guests is deeply ingrained in the Nepali culture, and while I was clearly more able to afford it, they steadfastly refused to let me pay for any, even when we were on the third round of glasses.

Finally it became clear that Raja wasn’t coming back. I was getting a bit hungry, and happened to mention this to my companions. Suphin, the guitar player took me down to his brother’s sandwich shop, where I procured a pair of salami sandwiches on baguettes, one for each of us. I had wanted to have typical Nepali food for my first meal in Kathmandu, but didn’t want to disappoing Suphin. And as it turned out the sandwich was really, really good, so it worked out okay.

As I walked back to my guesthouse the rain began once more. As I laid down to sleep, it really began to pour, and thunder filled the air with huge cracks followed by low rolling rumbles that would last thirty seconds or more afterwards. Given the tense situation in Nepal, the first of these caused me to wonder if a bomb had exploded somewhere in the city, but I discerned their true source soon enough.

The next morning there was no sign of the previous night’s storms, save for a bit of dampness on the ground. The sky was clear, the air clean and it seemed like a great day to head out into Kathmandu’s streets for further exploration of this city that had already fascinated me. My first explorations took me around Thamel looking for a less expensive guesthouse. While the place that I was staying was nice, the room had been marked up a bit in order to pay for my free taxi from the airport. After a bit of searching I found a place I liked, but in the end a bit of negotiating allowed me to stay at my original spot (albeit in a less fancy room) for the same price.

Business taken care of I went east, towards the royal palace. On my way I saw one piece after another of typical Kathmandu life. On one corner was a school with its uniformed students out playing at recess. On another was a shoe repair shop, the owner hard at work on the latest pair. On yet another were a group of women washing and drying the laundry for some large hotel or other.

I headed past the closed off palace compound and into a series of alleys and laneways typical of the city. It seemed that every turn brought another surprise, whether it be a busy thoroughfare or a huge ancient water tank with the neighbourhood’s residents all gathered around. I continued rambling around this district for a while, but eventually decided to return to more familiar ground.

I headed back along a major thoroughfare past the main gates of the palace. The police and military weren’t in one’s face, but they were very clearly there. Despite this, some of the historical traditions were clearly still in place, such as the mounted royal guards who rode past amongst the masses of cars, bikes and motorcycles.

Within a few minutes I was in thronging Thamel once again. As I wandered down one of Thamel’s secondary streets, I was invited into another gem shop. We sat down for a cup of tea and talked for a bit before he finally got around to asking me if I would like to make some money by exporting gems for them. This is a common scam throughout Asia, so I wasn’t terribly surprised, or indeed even that disappointed. So long as you’re firm in your conviction that you aren’t going to get involved, it’s actually a pleasant enough way to enjoy a chat and a few cups of tea.

I changed directions then and headed north of Thamel. I’d been thinking for a while that I needed a haircut, though had decided to wait until arrival in Nepal, as I thought it would likely be cheaper than in Thailand. I’d been unable to find the open-air barbers that I’d seen on my way into town, so ducked into one of the dozens of tiny hair-dressers shops (as they call themselves) that can be found on seemingly any Kathmandu street. I had to bargain for the price a bit, but fifteen minutes later I was back out on the street, sporting a freshly shorn scalp.

I continued my wandering and managed to get myself thoroughly lost. This isn’t particularly difficult in Kathmandu, as the entire city is a maze of narrow, twisting streets, small courtyards with entrances from several different streets, and alleys that frequently lead nowhere. For all that, however, I didn’t mind. I loved wandering through the streets, ducking under the low entrances to the courtyards, and taking random turns to see where I’d end up. Several times I wandered into a courtyard and was greeted by the happy, if surprised, faces of the residents of the homes that formed its walls. Equally interesting were the times where I’d enter a courtyard to find it deserted, save for a small shrine or monument that looked as ancient as the city itself.

Kathmandu has often been called a medieval city, and it wasn’t not at all hard to see why. In the central part of town especially, almost every building was constructed of ancient brick and has ornately carved wooden windows or shutters facing out onto the narrow, alley-like streets. Kathmandu seemed composed of two to five story brick buildings of random height and random floor area placed randomly throughout the city. Shrines, temples, stupas and other religious monuments were found everywhere I went, from major intersections to small alleys to quiet courtyards. Most of these looked as though they were hundreds of years old, and save for the occaisional small gesture of prayer, many of them were taken for granted, almost ignored by Kathmandu’s residents as they went about their lives. Even the simplest of businesses were housed in hundreds of years old brick structures that would be tourist attractions in many other parts of the world.

Aside from experiencing more of the wonders of the Kathmandu streets, getting lost had a secondary benefit. It got me thinking about food and eventually into a tiny restaurant where I had a couple of absolutely delicious samusas. So good were they that I grabbed two more from a young man with a pushcart, also taking the opportunity to ask for directions back to Thamel.

As I entered the district I received one more reminder (as if I needed one) that it was very clearly a tourist district, and at least a bit isolated from the “real” Kathmandu. I returned through the masses of travel agencies and souvenier shops, pausing at the occaisional trekking gear outlet to look for a couple other items I needed. I’m sure the folks at Mountain Equipment Co-op will be (in some way at least) pleased to know that their branding has been successful enough to motivate knockoff merchandise as far away as Kathmandu.

At night I ventured out of my guesthouse once more for a meal. This time I got the traditional Nepali Dal Bhat that I was looking for. I was pleased and relieved (relieved because other food is hard to come by on treks) that I quite liked it. The vegetables were especially good and reminded me of the Polish sauerkraut that was served at Mazurka, one of my favourite restaurants in Montreal. As I ate, I chatted with the friendly Nepali family that ran the tiny establishment, and everyone was smiling by the time I left.

Back at the guesthouse, I chatted with fellow guests, most of whom had already been in Nepal for some time, as well as a couple of Nepali men who ran an educational consulting business nearby and regularly came by after work.

My third day in Kathmandu was the first for which I had an actual plan and destination. One of the tourist highlights of the city is Durbar (Nepali for Royal Palace) Square. I checked out my map and was certain I’d be able to find my way there. I headed down the narrow streets (did I mention that the streets were narrow?) and before long was approached by a young Nepali teenager who started chatting with me. I quite enjoyed talking with him and we wandered through alleyways and courtyards together. Occaisionally he’d suggest we make a turn, and these invariably led us to some interesting shrine, temple or merchant area. At each of these he’d explain a bit about the temple and . It was fairly obvious by this point that he’d attached himself to me as a tour guide and would likely expect payment. In this case, I actually didn’t mind, as I was quite enjoying his company.

Eventually we reached Durbar Square, I paid my admission fee and we headed into the square area where he continued with his explanations and stories. Finally, after having visited each of the temples in the square he asked what I’d like to do next. I said, as politely as I could, that I was enjoying his company (and I truly was) but that I’d like to explore the square on my own for a bit. Without being asked, I offered him 50 rupees for his services. He made a bit of effort to squeeze some more money out of me (saying “people usually give me 1000 rupees! My school books are very expensive.”) and while I felt a bit guilty, he could hardly demand more out of what was really an entirely voluntary transaction.

After bidding the young man farewell I wandered back out into the streets of Kathmandu to continue my previous day’s explorations of the city. The area I found myself in this time wasn’t as old or eerily pretty as on the previous day, but I still enjoyed my walk, the friendly people I met and the four samusas I sampled from different shops along the way. Particularly memorable were the views of the river and houses climbing up the banks and the nearby recycling depot where dozens of people sorted and separated everything from newspapers to bottles to plastic bags.

Finally I returned to the square to obtain my long-term visitor’s pass (Durbar Square is actually fairly central to Kathmandu, so even if you aren’t planning on visiting the temples more than once you’ll likely need to walk through it again) from the site office. As it turned out I needed a smaller photo to go on my ID card, so I went out to procure one. I finally determined that my best bet would be to take a photo of myself and then have it printed, rather than to pay for an actual passport sized shot. I headed back along the busy New Road (the old road leading to Durbar Square was destroyed in a 1934 earthquake.) Across New Road on the way between the photo shop and the square hung a banner that served as another small reminder of the political situation in Nepal.

Back at Durbar Square I met Hans, an older Dutch man I knew from my guesthouse. Together we climbed up the steps of Maju Deval (also known as the Hippie temple, since it was a popular hangout for western overland visitors in the 1960s) and sat down on the top level to watch the world go by in the square below.

As we sat, we watched Sadhus (wandering holy men) pose for photos, then extract money from tourists, we watched ordinary Nepalis walking through the square carrying huge loads on straps running across their foreheads. After a while we were approached by a Nepali teenager (yet another one) asking to work as a tour guide. We politely declined and then watched him climb down the steps to try his luck with other visitors to the square.

Finally the time came for me to pick up my photos. On the way back to the shop I was approached by perhaps the most persistant salesman I’d met so far. Or perhaps his persistance was due to the fact that I’d actually expressed some interest at his offers instead of (as I usually did) saying “No thanks. I don’t need one. Even if you gave it to me for free I’d return it to you.” He was offering a small sandalwood backgammon set that I liked, though I wasn’t planning on buying that day. He finally convinced me when, with no effort on my part, he worked himself down from 2000 rupees to 300 for it.

After picking up my photos and getting my ID card made, I took the opportunity to re-visit many of the sites I’d been to earlier in the day with my tour guide. For some reason I’ve always been terribly self-conscious about taking photos when there are others present, but I definitely wanted a few shots of some of these things.

Durbar Square is a mass of temples, ranging from the tiny (but very holy) Ashok Binayak Ganesh shrine (whose open roof is said never to admit any rain) to the huge Kathmandasap (which gave the city its name, and serves as a home for many of Kathmandu’s homeless. The largest structure in the square, however, is not a temple at all, but the former royal palace, known as Hanuman Dhoka, after the Hindu monkey god. I didn’t venture inside (the admission fee was pretty steep) but even the main gate was quite pretty.

Several of the medium sized temples are equally, if not more pretty than those at the extremes. The octagonal Krishna temple is beautiful in its simplicity, while the Mahendreshwar temple near the north end of the square is equally appealing in its ornateness.

Perhaps the prettiest temple of all is that of Kumari Devi, the living goddess of Kathmandu. A young girl is chosen for this role through a series of rigorous tests, and fulfils it until puberty when she renounces her divine status and returns to the world of the mortals. During that time she resides in a beautiful three storey house, whose interior houses a courtyard full of some of the finest of fine Newari woodcarving (the Newaris are the race of people that are the historical inhabitants of the Kathmandu Valley.)

My re-visitation of Durbar Square complete, I headed back by the same route I’d used in the morning, walking back through the potter’s square, where almost anything made of fired clay can be had, and then re-visiting the Seto Machendranath (the Nepali rain god) temple, which is revered by both Hindus and Buddhists alike. The temple itself was quite a sight, but perhaps the most memorable thing about the place was the pigeons. They were everywhere! I’ve never heard a sound quite like the cooing of hundreds (thousands?) of pigeons at once. Pigeons are encouraged to stay at many of Kathmandu’s temples, as they act as messengers bringing prayers from the temple to the gods above. There weren’t quite as many of the birds there in the afternoon, but that still meant that I constantly felt as though I’d trip over one.

I walked back to Thamel through the intense rush-hour traffic of Kathmandu’s Streets, past the usual crowds of rickshaws and pedestrians and settled in for another quiet evening at the Pilgrim’s guesthouse.

First thing in the morning I headed out on foot for Swayambunath, colloquially (and easier to pronounced-ly) known as The Monkey Temple. On the way there I passed one of the rivers that ran through Kathmandu and was at once saddened and revolted. I could smell the river before I saw it, and even after I did catch a glimpse almost wished I hadn’t. Garbage was everywhere, on the banks, floating down the stream and piling up in the middle of the water.

As I wandered down nearer to the banks to take a photo, a group of four young Nepali men invited me to join their game of cricket. I’d never played before, but they were still happy to mess around for a few minutes for my benefit. The friendly lads let me bowl five balls (I didn’t get a single one on target, but one of them did get caught) and bat for a bit (I performed still worse at this.) I took a few photos of them playing and promised to send copies by e-mail.

After my brief sporting interlude I carried on down the street past still more medival looking shops and homes and finally came to the base of the hill on which the Monkey Temple sat. Around the base were a wide variety of vendors, and restaurants, as well as quite a few (I assumed) Nepali visitors to the place just milling about.

I climbed up past the main gate, reaching the summit a few hundred steps later. The climb up the stairs was beautiful, with small statues and prayer flags (coloured squares of cloth with Buddhist mantras printed on them) all around, but the stupa at the summit was even prettier. The views out over Kathmandu and other sections of the valley were also just lovely (though they would have been better if the air wasn’t so thick with pollution.)

As I sat and stared out over the valley a Nepali man asked me to take a photo of him and his Nephew. We had a wonderful chat about Nepal and Kathmandu. He was so warm and friendly and so eager to offer whatever advice he could that I hardly noticed the time passing as we chatted.

A few minutes later, I stopped and talked with a man who turned out to be a teacher, taking his students on a day trip to the temple (apparently that day was something of a holiday. The students didn’t have to attend classes, but there were still many school-organized activities taking place.)

I was somewhat surprised by the profusion of souvenier stands in the temple area itself, but while there were many of them, the proprieters seemed much more relaxed than elsewhere in the city. Indeed, I sat and talked with one of them for a good half hour before he even mentioned that he sold things. Further, he even said that I ought not to buy anything from him that day, since I’d just have to carry it around for the rest of my time in Nepal. This, along with stories he told me and the demonstration of his wares (with no sales pitch) endeared me to the man and ensured that if I ever wanted anything he sold I’d be buying it from him.

All of these wonderful Nepali people were a welcome relief from the touts and scam artists in Thamel, and were much more like what I’d been expecting.

The souvenier salesman had given me rough directions for to my next destination, and I headed down the back stairs of the temple as he’d suggested. On the way down there were still more beautiful prayer flags, including some incredibly long strings that stretched on and on in front of me as I looked out over the valley once more.

Back down on level ground, I headed down the street, past the natural history museum where a group of schoolkids were busy participating in some sort of sports day. I watched them go through sack races, egg and spoon races and run-then-drink-a-glass-of-cola-races (this last brought back unpleasant memories of the snowshoe beer mile from E-Week at McGill University. If you don’t know what the SSBM is, it’s probably for the best.) As I sat watching, many other schoolchildren on their way down from the temple passed. Quite a few said hello, or asked me my name or where I was from, while one particularly bold fellow came up and chatted for a few seconds before noting “you look like Stone Cold from wrestling.” I suppose, given my skin colour, new haircut and old goatee that there might have been some resemblence. Everyone watching was also terribly amused when I explained what I was doing while putting sunscreen on my head which had already suffered a bit of a sunburn that morning.

I carried on down the suburban Kathmandu streets, past shops, homes and schools. I’d read in the paper that some schools (presumeably those occupied by the children of Nepal’s rich and privleged) had come under Maoist attack. The heavy military presence outside one school I passed provided more evidence of this.

It was around lunch time, and I was happy to come across a place that, while it looked very rustic and “Nepali” had a big English sign outside reading “Pure Veg Mo Mo, R20 Only!.” Mo Mos are a Tibetan food that, over the past ten years or so have grown into something of a craze among Kathmandu residents, (to the point that many restaurants call themselves “Mo Mo Centres.” They’re actually very similar to perogies, and can be filled with anything from minced vegetables to buff (buffalo meat.) My Mo Mos (and so far as I can tell, all of them) were served with a yummy curry sauce and made a fine, inexpensive snack or light meal.

Lunch concluded I walked a little further and on to a big, busy road. I’d been wondering where the real urban blight of Kathmandu was, and it appeared that I’d found it. The traffic and air pollution were both particularly thick, and when I passed by the national stadium and over the bridge on the Baghmati River (the main river in Kathmandu) the smell was even worse than at the creek earlier in the day.

Thankfully I left all of this behind before too long as I headed into the second city of the Kathmandu Valley, Patan. Patan is located on the south bank of the Baghmati, and was one of three city states that historically ruled the area (Kathmandu and Bhaktapur were the others.)

Quieter as it was, Patan was still very much a city, and was more or less continuous with Kathmandu. It didn’t take long, however, to find my way off the main roads and on to a local government-developed walking tour of the old town. My walk took me through still more tiny streets, alleys and courtyards. Many of the buildings here didn’t seem quite as old as those in central Kathmandu, and most of the streets weren’t quite so narrow, but overall Patan was probably even prettier.

I lost the walking trail for a while, but as before, this was no problem, as it led me to pretty little neighbourhoods that I wouldn’t have found otherwise. One of these actually had the oldest looking buildings I saw anywhere in the city. Its small water tank was quite a hub of activity!

Having found the trail again, I carried on. The courtyards it took me through were absolutely beautiful, especially the big one containing Pim Bahal Pokhari, a large pond surrounded by temples and stupas. Given that this walking tour was sponsored by the local tourism authority and was listed in the Lonely Planet guidebook (I’ve taken great pains to avoid referencing specific guidbook brands to this point, but the fact that it’s the most popular one is relevant to this discussion) I’d expected to run into at least a few other tourists as I walked, but it wasn’t until the end of the trip at the Kumbeshawar Shiva temple that I saw a couple of others. Much to my surprise, I also saw a couple of faces I recognized: the two Nepali businessmen who I’d met at my guesthouse a couple of nights previous. They recognized me as well, and we sat and talked for a few minutes. Apparently they were there for the wedding of one of their partner’s brothers. They had to hurry off, but before leaving i nvited me to the wedding party later that night.

This gave me just enough time to visit Patan’s Durbar Square before heading back to Kathmandu. Since Patan was once a city state in its own right, on an equal footing with Kathmandu, it’s unsurprising that its Palace Square is just as impressive. Further, the late afternoon light was perfect for viewing all of its temples, as it accentuated their earthy colours. One notable, and very pretty difference from the square in Kathmandu were the figures raised up above the square on columns or pedestals. This one is a Garuda (man-bird) facing a Vishnu temple (Often Hindu temples [in Nepal at least] have a statue of the god to whom the temple is dedicated’s traditional animal mount outside, but facing the temple itself.)

After my quick tour of the square I headed back to Thamel on foot. On the way I met a very pleasant young Nepali man named Suraj, who invited me to visit a school where he was a volunteer teacher in a couple of days time. I gladly accepted the invitation and hurried back across the bridge into the mess of Kathmandu’s rush hour traffic.

I arrived back at my guesthouse a bit late, and threw on my only presentable set of clothes before rushing out the door and grabbing a taxi for the restaurant where the reception was to be held. As it turned out, I wasn’t particularly late, arriving in about the fiftieth percentile of the guests.

There was only one face I recognized (and none that I actually knew) present, but I was still welcomed in and given a seat. I was embarassed to realize that the face I knew was the groom, and I hadn’t even congratulated him when I met him at first (though I made sure to rectify that as soon as I realized.)

The Nepalis around me were all very friendly and did their best to ensure I was comfortable and entertained until the people I knew arrived. We sat and ate delicious appetizers (my favourite was a mix of sweet red onion, fresh coriander, chillis and peanuts served with rice flakes, and there was another that tasted a lot like spicy general Tso chicken) while drinking first Rakshi (Nepali rice whisky) and then more standard western beverages.

By the time those I knew had arrived, I was already feeling quite at home, and spent a good long time chatting with Babu, an English professor who had some interesting ideas about “World Standard English,” that being the slowed down, simplified language that one uses when communicating with someone who speaks a different dialect.

It was far from a traditional Nepali wedding, as the bride was Japanese, but it was being held at a restaurant that featured traditional Nepali dancing and music. It was all quite pretty, but my clear favourite was the Yeti dance, which featured a dancer covered in a costume made of what looked like mop strings. He jumped around the stage in time to the music (presumeably) mimicing the motions of the legendary Abominable Snowman.

As the evening continued I moved from one part of the table to another chatting with a few different groups, and even sharing plates of delicious Newari food with a couple of different people.

The evening ended with Nepali traditional and pop music played for everyone to dance along with. I wasn’t willing to be the first one on the floor, as some of my companions had hoped, but I was more than happy to join in the festivities once a few others were out there.

The festivities concluded fairly early (21:30 perhaps?) I shared a taxi back to Thamel with a couple of my new friends, and stayed up just long enough to catch sight of one of the bride’s relatives, Taka, returening to the guesthouse. We’d been staying at the same place for several days and hadn’t even noticed!

The next morning I woke up to my alarm clock, which I’d set to ensure I made a rendezvous with one of my friends from the wedding. He hadn’t appeared by 09:40, forty minutes after the appointed time. I wasn’t entirely surprised at this, given how much he’d had to drink, and decided to make the best of it.

I walked out of the guesthouse and down a small road across from it to what had become my regular breakfast spot, a small Indian restaurant where I’d been having a couple of Chapatis (delicious round un-leavened bread) each morning for the past few days. By this point the proprieters knew me and smiled as I approached. Chapatis in hand, I carried on down the road and past a monstrous line of people waiting for… something. I asked someone in line and was told that they were waiting to re-register for telephone lines. Apparently most accounts been cancelled as part of the king’s power grab, and everyone had to sign up anew. I, for one, would find that very, very irritating, but I suppose if irritation is the worst result of a coup (maybe that isn’t QUITE the right word for it) in your country you aren’t doing to badly.

I carried on down the street, turning onto Tredevi Marg, and refilling my water bottles (I was delighted to have discovered the re-filling station, as I loathed buying a new bottle every time I needed water.) I carried merrily on my way, shrugging off the usual collection of flute floggers and map merchants, but couldn’t seem to rid myself of one small beggar boy. He kept saying “very hungry,” and apparently he must have been, since he seemed delighted to receive 3/4 of my remaining chapati. I carried on down the road past the royal palace, feeling delighted with my good deed.

This was a good long walk and took me into what I presumed was an area typical of the newer sections of Kathmandu. The streets were similarly twisting and random, though not quite as narrow, and while the proportions of the buildings were similar they were constructed of painted concrete rather than brick and wood.

My first destination was Pashupatinath, a large Hindu temple. If I do say so myself, I’d done an admirable job of navigating using a map of dubious quality, and had headed through several major streets (though, as you can see, a major street in Kathmandu bears little resemblance to such thoroughfares in North America.) I was amazed at how unbroken the development of Kathmandu was. I’d walked almost 6km out of town, and the density seemed to have waned only very briefly before returning to near its city-centre highs. As I wandered along I couldn’t help but be amused by some particularly prosaic business names of the sort that I’d seen on earlier walks. Two favourites were: Photo Concern and Key Concern. Note that these aren’t simply explanations of or advertisements for the establishments, but their actual names.

Many of the streets I’d walked were busy, but as I approached my destination I turned on to the busiest yet. As I walked along the side of the road (sidewalks/footpaths are more or less non-existant in Kathmandu except on the biggest few streets) a van pulled up along side and the window rolled down. Much to my astonishment it was the brother of the groom from the previous night’s wedding! He said he was headed towards Bodhanath, my next intended stop. It really didn’t matter what order I visited the temples in, so I climbed aboard and sat chatting with him for a few minutes as we navigated the abysmal traffic (I think the worst of Kathmandu’s traffic was just as bad as Bangkoks, but the misery wasn’t quite as widespread there.)

After some deft navigation through sidestreets my friends dropped me off and pointed the way to Bodhanath. Bodhanath, also known as Boudha (pronounced Boh-dah) is the largest stupa in Nepal and one of the largest in the world. I carried on up the street and soon saw the spire of the stupa above the buildings.

I paid my entrance fee and headed into the compound. As with the Monkey Temple, I was surprised by how much commercial activity was going on in the immediate area of Bouhda. Not only were there souvenier and food stands here, but actual restaurants, shops and even guesthouses! These could do nothing to detract from the majesty of the huge stupa that towered above them all. People walked around on its middle tiers, and all around masses of prayer flags fluttered in the breeze their bright colours made all the brighter .

I walked clockwise (as one is supposed to do) around the stupa. The low wall surrounding it had prayer wheels (cylinders on an axle with mantras written on them that are believed to be “said” whenever the wheel is spun) and people praying. At the rear of the stupa mounted the steps up to the second tier, walked clockwise around once more and climbed to the third level. At this point I was in amongst the masses of prayer flags and had to duck once or twice to avoid them. During my walk I was greeted by a pair of small tweleve year old Nepali boys named Rajesh and Tashi who followed me around asking many of the usual questions about me, my family and my home. I was a bit wary of them, and so when they asked about my plans I said I was going to sit down and read for a bit. A bit more talking with them and I began to believe that they really were just genuinely nice kids. They asked where I was planning on going after my read. When I said Pashupatinath, they were delighted, saying that one of their mothers was there at that moment.

The three of us set out along a dirt and rock road that passed through the first signs of undeveloped land I’d yet seen. On one side were large farm fields, and on the other were smaller, more diffuse than usual dwellings. As we walked a few other young boys joined us and began asking the usual questions. I asked their names in return, but my original companions later informed me that they’d responded with impolite Nepali words, hoping that I’d amuse them by repeating. “They were naughty boys,” said one of my companions.

Much to my surprise, as we were walking along this dirt road yet another of the few Nepalis I knew walked off of a side street and almost ran into me. Tenzig Sherpa was a trekking guide who had been with a few guys from my hostel recently, and both of us remembered one another. Apparently he was out near Boudha to visit his brother. As big a city as Kathmandu was I seemed to have no difficulty finding familiar faces amongst its millions of residents.

We said goodbye to Tenzig and carried on towards Pashupatinath, reaching it maybe 15 minutes later. Once again I declined to actually go inside the temple on the grounds that it didn’t look particularly striking and that once again it had a fairly hefty admission fee (I did start to wonder, however, if I was missing out on really spectacular places for the sake of a few $5 admission fees.)

As we walked along the front of the temple, we passed a big troop of monkeys that were snacking away on bucketsfull of halved banannas that had been thrown out by them. We walked along the very pretty (and not unpleasant smelling even) river, where people were busy bathing and washing clothes near a group of shrines on the far bank.

As we followed the banks we were joined by yet another group of young boys, and the original pair’s proprietarial attitude towards me continued. The group kept following us despite some stern words in Nepali from my protectors. They told me, quietly and in English, that these boys weren’t nice and wanted to get money from me. We climbed up some steps, followed by the group and the larger of my two said something that sounded quite angry, which was met by an angry reply from one of the others. In a moment they were standing chest to chest staring almost viciously into one another’s eyes. I was sure that a fight was going to break out any moment, but all I could think to do was say, rather lamely, “fighting isn’t good.” Thankfully, nothing really came of it and the group slunk away leaving us alone again.

My boys didn’t really know what to do with me, and kept suggesting different things: We can go to my uncle’s house! We should go back to Boudha! Are you hungry?

Finally we did walk back to near Boudha and I let them know I’d have to be going soon, in order to make it back to Thamel and meet yet another friend I’d met at the wedding. As is so often the case, I really wanted to do something for them, even though they hadn’t asked. It took me a great deal of effort to convice them to sit down for lunch with me, where, at their suggestion, we had Thukpa (a sort of spicy noodle soup.)

While we ate, they played with my digital camera, taking snaps of each other and of the street outside. I took a couple of photos of them, including one that captured a little bit of the essence of Rajesh.

After this I made my way home, and while I’d planned on taking the same oute back, this didn’t quite work out, as I took a wrong turn somewhere or other. Nonetheless, I had a pleasant walk back. I walked through several distinct neighbourhoods, including one where I saw this Gin! advertisement painted on a wall. Later I passed a quieter residential area, with dirt and rock covered alleys running between the newer concrete houses. I also wandered through a bustling market area where everything from soap to toys to fabric to spices were laid out for sale in front of the shops.

It took a while for me to get back to Thamel, and on the way I met Babu, who I was supposed to be seeing at my guesthouse. He told me he had to go see someone about some translation work, and that he’d be there in forty minutes or so.

He showed up as promised and we took a walk out to a cafe where we sat on an upstairs terrace drinking coffee and talking. We chatted for an hour or so, then headed back onto the street and wandered around Thamel a bit. We tried to find the travel agency owned by yet another wedding guest, but eventually gave up and went into one at random. On the spur of the moment I decided that I’d leave Kathmandu in two days time. The Maoists had ordered a transport strike and had effectively closed most of the country’s roads to any vehicles without a military escort, but the strike had just ended so it was possible to buy a bus ticket for Pokhara instead of a plane ticket as I thought I might have to.

Travel arrangements made, we went to a nearby restaurant for dinner. The place was cozy, in the basement of a building and, to my surprise, we found yet more people I knew sitting playing cards there. Babu and I sat down on cushions at a table nearby and ate a very nice Newari meal before finally heading back out and saying goodnight.

The next morning it was time to keep an appointment I’d made previously to visit Suraj and his school in the village of Bungamati. I’d been told that it was a very typical Newari village, and comfortably removed from the bustle of Kathmandu.

I walked down to the main bus station, where several very helpful people pointed out the mini-bus that I needed. Were it not for them I wouldn’t have had a hope of identifying the correct one, as some of them had destinations only in Nepali, and the others had no identifying marks at all.

After changing buses in the suburb of Jawalkhalel (again with the assistance of helpful Nepalis) I began to see the end of the bustle of Kathmandu. The roads we drove on towards Bngamati left a lot to be desired, though they were still better than the old ones in Cambodia, and scenery was absolutely gorgeous. The terraced fields outside of the city were thick with their dry season crops of garlic, green onion and, prettiest of all, mustard.

Not long after the appearance of these fields, the bus stopped in a small square in a dusty looking (but actually very pleasant) town, and everyone disembarked. Apparently we were in Bungamati.

I asked around for the location of the Tri Ratna school (even in this small village most people spoke enough English to understand me and reply) but the first few people didn’t seem to know where it was. I wandered around the streets of Bungamati for a bit, hoping to find the place, but with no success. Finally I returned to the bus park square and asked a shopkeeper. He simply pointed at a large sign across the road, which read “Tri Ratna Co-operative School,” and left me feeling a bit silly.

In truth the school still wasn’t easy to find, it took a short walk through an alley and past some vegetable gardens, but one way or another I made it there.

Upon arriving, I was greeted by friendly staff members, but my explanations of how I’d found my way there were met by blank stares and further questions. Apparently no one new my friend Suraj. I was invited into the principal’s office where we sat down and he explained a bit about the school.

The Tri Ratna school was a co-operative, run by a group of local citizens. The students ranged in age from 3 to 16, and were from Bungamati and surrounding villages. In addition to the regular school, there was also a vocational institute for the re-training of child labourers who had been taken out of carpet factories, but had no family or friends or other means of support.

We walked outside and found Suraj standing in the courtyard. It turned out that the principal knew very well who he was. I had simply been mispronouncing his name. Suraj took me on a tour of the school. We had a long stop in a class full of nine year olds. They were all very talkative, friendly and exciteable. I couldn’t imagine being able to keep them quietly working away at their desks, but perhaps my presence exagerated their rowdy tendancies a bit. I told them about my family and life and a bit about Canada, and asked them similar questions about themselves. While we were talking I took a look at their workbooks. They were currently in “General Knowledge” class, and I was amazed at the difficulty of some of the questions they were expected to answer. After about half an hour in the class Suraj and I bid them farewell, and carried on with a tour of the rest of the school.

We took a look at the vocational training centre and then stopped off in the library and science lab, where the laboratory equipment and experiements the students did brought back memories of my own high school science classes.

Our tour of the school complete, Suraj asked if I’d seen Bungamati yet. I replied that I’d seen a little while looking for the school, but not really. He took me on a walking tour around the town, through the typical simple streets, through the main square with its famous Machendranath Temple.

We carried on walking out of the town, to several small picnic spots with beautiful views of the surrounding countryside, and eventually to a small restaurant where we sat down in a private booth and each had a plate fo vegetable mo mos.

The whole time we were together Suraj and I talked about many and varied subjects, and by the time I climbed on to the bus back to Kathmandu I happily promised to visit him again when I returned from Pokhara.

The rest of my last evening in Kathmandu was spent fairly sedately, working onthis ‘blog entry with one quick break for a huge meal of Dal Bhat, during which every item on the Thali (large metal serving plate) was re-filled at least once.

The next morning my alarm woke me at 05:50, a few minutes before the wakeup knock from the hotel staff. I shouldered my pack and headed out into the (surprisingly busy) Kathmandu streets to the tourist bus stop where I boarded my bus for Nepal’s second city, Pokhara.

Thanks this time are due to the wonderfully friendly people of Kathmandu. Thamel got a bit frustrating now and then with its persistant salespeople and vendors, and its occaisional con-man, but outside of that one sm

Tags: Nepal

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