by Jeffrey Vonk
Exhausted from the trip, my Canadian travel buddy and I desire to spend a week in the hotel we checked in to. Unfortunately, after only one night we are on the move again. While Steve is enjoying the luxury of a warm shower it goes completely unnoticed that the drain is clogged. Things are already floating in the room by the time I wake up. A few floors down water is dripping from the ceilings. By the time I yell: “Turn it off!”, the owner is already knocking on the door. As I open the brown door a small tsunami heads for the hallway, the miniature billows reaching up to his ankles, soaking his shoes. We quickly grab our belongings, wish him all the best, and get the hell out of there.
Another hotel seems slightly better. All is fine and dandy except for an out-of-order toilet. Just when everything seems to be going well the staff steals half the amount of gasoline from our jerry can. Needless to say, we leave without paying for our stay.
The next hotel with a private bathroom is so inexpensive that I am not even considering a hostel with a dormitory, let alone enduring a shared kitchen. Restaurants are cheap enough for daily visits, which is a good thing as I love food. To outsmart the insects I try my luck a few times tying my fresh bread from the bakery to the ceiling lamp. Yet a horde of malicious ants finds it every time, careless about their incursion.
One of these afternoons I climb the two hundred thirteen steps of Dharahara, better known as the Bhimsen Tower. Marveling the view of the entire valley I am yet oblivious of the future earthquake that would bury almost two hundred people in the rubble of this structure alone, and a staggering total death toll of nearly nine thousand! Not ending there, nearly twenty-two thousand become wounded, leaving thousands upon thousands homeless and displaced. I suppose it was always a matter of when, instead of if, the earthquake would happen, after being warned for years in advance because Kathmandu is built on a rather large fault line.
Luckily spared from such misfortune this district has plenty of tumult to get engaged in. The streets are infused with protests, strikes and political rallies. Carrying banners and placards, they march through the streets, shouting and chanting, by the hundreds and even by the thousands at times. Gathering on squares and fields it goes on for weeks. It’s a privilege to experience Nepal still as a monarchy. You see, a coup and overthrow of the standing government by the rebels who are hungry for power and vehemently idealistic was inevitable. As threatening as the heavily armed military was upon entry, we are accustomed to it by now. Feeling great about our new habitat, meaning the country, we reckon it’s time to indulge ourselves in some laid-back adventure and well-deserved leisure.
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Something that starts as a mere thought develops into a memory for life. Funny how that works. Amazing what can happen in a few days. It all starts with a long sticky bus ride to the southwest. It is very relaxing to not have to drive ourselves for a change. Photo cameras are snapping away at all the green beauty about. Fairly dark-skinned people are working in the fields, tilling and plowing the ground with outdated tools. Their bodies a bit beyond slim – skinny perhaps. Children yet unaware of the poor conditions seem shy but happy, also they are looking very adorable in those mandatory school uniforms. For different reasons I highly support the use of such uniforms, I think all schools around the world should implement this, as kids should feel equal and safe to be themselves. Later we trade the bus for an outdated van with its sliding door missing. Sitting in the opening, I let the warm wind go through my hair as I observe everyday life. I enjoy this moment to the full; in my own country, burdened by too many rules and restrictions, this would never be allowed. Time moves along until we reach a broad brown river with a slow current. Small crocodiles are minding their own business at the muddy shore. Locals in primitive canoes paddle us across where we are embraced by the loving arms of the Royal Chitwan National Park.
A white jeep with an open back takes us on a wobbly ride to a huge track of lush boscage, as yet unspoiled by mass tourism. In fact, upon arrival we discover that we are the only ones! Subtropical heat and the sun gently caress our faces. Some of the staff from the park are so bored that they serve fresh juices every fifteen minutes, others stuff us with delicious local dishes all day. Could life be more perfect? Yes it can, because today we hop on an elephant for the first time for a ride through the jungle. Boy, is that fun! In awe of these powerful intelligent creatures, we are inseparable from them from first contact on. So how does it work? Have you ever seen someone mount the largest land animal? It goes as follows: place your foot on the front side of the lowered trunk, gently grab the elephant’s ears which magically makes the trunk go upward, then step onto its head and walk to the middle of its back and voilà, you now find yourself on top of it, and on top of things. I understand when people are against the use of animals for commercial profit, but this is not like those half-gnawed circus bears with chains around their necks in Bulgaria in the 1950s or something. From what we see, the elephants are very well treated. Park rangers play with them all day, clean them, massage them, feed them – and both parties seem to enjoy it. There are always folks claiming that elephants are wild animals; however, I see no reason why man and animal cannot coexist. I mean, why should we live apart in nature?
On one of our jungle endeavors, our grey friend even protects us. We spot a group of rhinos between the five-foot-high grass in the swamplands. It is less than ten minutes before one of them, the biggest one, is fed up with our presence. Just when the snarling savage is closing in to announce his attack, something completely unexpected happens: without any warning, our trunked ride goes full beast mode, no pun intended. It starts chasing the rhino, crushing anything in its path! Sitting on the elephant’s back, we have to actively protect ourselves from the branches coming our way. With brutal force thin trees are stomped down and we trail blaze through an increasingly dense forest, pursuing the rhino until he is out of sight. What a thrill! In addition, it certainly looks like our taxi was protecting us instead of itself, which makes sense if you see the bond between the elephants and people. Especially with their caretakers – but in this case, us also. The adults even have enough trust to let us feed the babies and arm-wrestle with their little trunks, which are already shockingly strong. Being so close to beings that could kill you in an instant is a humbling experience. Spending time in an area as untouched as this, I truly fathom how important it is for humans to interact and build relationships with animals.
Although the park is close enough to the border with northeast India for us to smell the curries, our time in Nepal has not yet ended. Another crowded and worn-out bus takes us to a blooming paradise at the foot of the extensive Himalayan range. Halting near a big lake we arrive in foliate Pokhara. The city lies in the shadow of Fishtail, a snow-capped mountain left untouched due to its sanctity. At present, fortune seekers overrun the city, kind of ruining the atmosphere by turning all the buildings into restaurants – very much unlike the olden days, when swarms of climbers flocked to climb the breathtaking Annapurna.
Experienced mountaineers as well as juvenile daredevils and nature freaks – everyone is getting along. A feel-good town, characterized by invisible geckos sticking to your ceiling and cockroaches boldly engaging in a Cooper test on your bed sheets – you gotta love it. Nevertheless, I feel an inner peace that I have not felt in a long time. Lying on the roof of a cheap hotel with the enchanting outlook of a perfect sunset across the ancient lake is phenomenal. The orange roof tiles remain warm from the prosperous day. As if that wasn’t enough, my Discman is playing Coldplay’s greatest hits. This might come across as awkward, but sometimes you have to give yourself a few days off while traveling.
For Steve it is nearly time to go home. His airplane leaves in a few days. For that reason, we plan to take the bus back to Kathmandu. Within an hour of bidding the serenity farewell, we are stuck in traffic. The cracked road with two lanes is jam-packed. While the hands of our watches are spinning round we don’t move an inch. Due to the boiling hot temperature, I decide to check th
e surroundings, and while doing so I walk nearly half a mile until I discover what the fuss is all about. There is a dead guy in the street! A large group of bystanders are following the debate between hysterical family members of the deceased individual and the bus driver who is apparently responsible for killing the man; the driver is now trying to make a financial agreement. Turns out Nepal does not have insurance policies yet. A random German tourist and I reckon that the hold-up has lasted long enough. Therefore, we step in, intending to drag the lifeless body to the side of the street. There are only about a million cars waiting to resume their agenda, and to us it is logical and productive thinking. Just when we bend over to grab the wrists and ankles, a few police officers jump on our backs, ready to club us down! Several attempts to persuade them to continue their quarrel next to the road and not on it ultimately fail. It is here and now that we learn that everyone is subject to Nepal’s nonsensical laws. On the other hand, it might be pretty darn disrespectful of us to deviate so far from their customs, but the thinking of our young European minds is inscrutable.
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Back in the center of the anarchic capital we saunter through dusty Thamel, spending our last moments together. A newspaper at a wooden kiosk surprises me when I read the story of Lincoln – you know, the writer on Sagarmatha, as the Nepalese call Mount Everest. To our disappointment, it only mentions the expeditionary team that found him, instead of the true heroes, the brave Sherpas who also went up and actually got him down alive. That is a slice of the reporting skills of the mainstream media for you. Even more jaw-dropping is the second paragraph, which reveals that in China workers managed to cram in the last seventy kilometers of the train track between Beijing and Lhasa into just a few weeks. Unbelievable! Reading those things that I more or less personally been involved in, my heartbeat goes up a notch from the excitement.
With much joy, we look back on our chapter together. It was a time of deep and meaningful conversation, where we shared memories such as the time when a pink-dressed female marching band started to play because we walked by, and when we had to go to the hospital for Steve’s peanut allergy. Sitting there with his swollen face the nurse sterilized a needle by holding it above a lit candle. We would never forget the time when we had a meeting in a dicey hotel with the Nepalese Mafia, who wanted to discuss the smuggling of diamonds across the border. Realizing that these fellows were not your everyday kind of pickpockets, we cunningly played along, trying to keep things friendly, and trying to bail out of the deal by purposely setting our going rate too high. Still, when the sunglasses-wearing bodyguards of the head figure – who was radiating serious authority like the character in the gangster movie The Godfather – locked the door behind us, the first thing I instinctively checked was whether there was plastic sheeting on the floor. And then there was the time when the hairy Canadian fell because his legs were just a little bit too short for his bike, and all the times we had to mentally pull each other through due to the insane hardships. If I may say so myself, this has been a pretty remarkable journey for two strangers.
* * *
Left by myself again in this big world, I get on the hoser’s donated bike to drive from the district of Pulchowk to Patan, where I drop it off with one of his vague contacts. In fact, it is at one of the branches of the United Nations where it’s probably still present at today. On my own motorcycle again, I am joined by Ram Kumar, the teenage bellboy from my hotel. After driving through unimaginable pollution and sheer pandemonium, we arrive at Pashupatinath, where one is taken back in time by centuries, if not millennia. At this remarkable site, human bodies burn twenty-four hours a day. Hindus do not believe in burying their dead – instead, they are cremated on the same day they die, pretty much out in the open, covered by some twigs. As a non-Hindu you must watch the rituals from across the Bagmati River, but my new friend arranges to get me in, despite it being a very rare opportunity for a Westerner. Next to the burning corpses, on small-bricked platforms, family members of the deceased are shaving their heads in the traditional way while surrounded by white smoke. High temples with Pagoda architecture shine in a dignified manner on both sides of the river, where the ashes and human remains are swept into, only to meet women doing their laundry just a couple of hundred yards downstream. A reminder of a once-so-advanced civilization, double-layered copper rooftops adorned with real gold gleam over all the surroundings. According to legend, the temple is one of the oldest in Nepal. It makes you wonder where it all went wrong?
While walking up to nearby Arya Ghat, I realize that the path is crawling with disease-infested monkeys. They are everywhere, and keeping an eye on anything they can snatch. Although I am only six feet tall, I pass locals who are at least a head shorter, making me feel like a giant.
The bellboy proposes to visit his uncle and aunt that are living close by. My hesitation vanishes as snow in sunshine when he mentions that he has two beautiful nieces. The Don Juan that I am, I was very much interested to meet them. Although it turns out the girls are not at home, we spend many hours talking. In a way, it is an honor to be the first white guest. Uncle is wearing thick spectacles and a black mustache with some grey at the ends. He is delighted to show me the albums with family portraits, even more so, his homegrown vegetables on the rooftop which he takes much pride in. These kindhearted and entertaining folks show great hospitality.
* * *
Back in Thamel I’m introduced to the ‘fucking-girl’, whom we meet in the unpaved streets. She greets me with a certain amount of shame in her big blue eyes, at the same time somehow aware of my commiseration. So the rumors I heard are true. Here is this seventeen-year-old French girl boldly prostituting herself to supposedly buy a ticket back home. With her curly hair and doll-like face, she pretty much visits every single room of the entire hotel, except for mine. God knows how she ended up in this situation, but I guess we all have our crosses to bear. In an era before the invention of WhatsApp, and before Facebook was in our daily vocabulary, now a decade later, on a relaxing Sunday morning during breakfast, I can still dwell on whatever became of her.
A series of small events make the weeks go by fast. For one, with a mic and camera I was interviewed by journalists about the wrongly adjusted mile gauges in taxis. Recently a client was pummeled down with an iron rod by a driver over this, thus sparking the controversy. Several times indeed, misleading cab drivers almost had me pay quadruple the actual price had I not paid close attention. You bet I pissed off some drivers by keeping an eye on it.
On the day I apply for my visa to India, three fakirs have placed some wicker baskets on a rug, more or less in the middle of the street. Producing annoying melodies on their flutes, I am invited to sit amongst them on the rug. Unable to control my curiosity I accept. If I had only known what would happen next. When the lids go off the baskets, the first snakes are pulled out and carelessly placed on my shoulders. In no time I have a total of six snakes around my neck and the seventh, a cobra, is staring me right in the face. I can only pray the fakirs know what they are doing. I did not sign up for this! By no mean is it the fakir’s intention to see me die on the spot, because in a hypnotizing manner he starts whispering into my ear claiming that I’ll give them a lot of money. I respond that I will give them whatever they want as long as they get that cobra out of sight – needless to say, I lied.
Then there is the homeless boy in the streets, six, maybe seven? They are always small for their age anyway, it is hard to tell. I buy him two pieces of bread, which he later sells back to the baker at the side door and goes off to buy crack. My heart breaks as I tail the kid out of interest and compassion. I walk back to the bakery, look the man straight in his eyes while helping myself to fill my daypack with bread, with the most contemptuous glim. His employees wonder why their boss does not say anything about me stealing the bread, but he recognizes me instantly and shame is dripping off his face.
Incidents like this make it very hard to trust the people around here. Stepping out of that co
nstant prejudiced state of mind, I take a huge leap of faith when one guy asks for a stack of medicine. I honestly admit, I do not trust him at all, thinking he will sell it back to the pharmacy. He claims he is going to die without medicine and judging from the way he looks he certainly has a point. His appearance is like a person from the 1990s with severe HIV on a hunger strike. Clever as I am, I take the strips of pills and prescriptions out of the boxes so he cannot resell them, and make a list of his obligations. After vanishing from the street scene for six weeks I convince myself that I have been scammed after all. The bastard! But lo and behold, when I run into him again his festering wounds have healed and he gained a dozen pounds! I am very content to see him so healthy and fresh. Years later it sinks in that I might have actually saved the young man’s life. Amazing how those dark sunken eyes transformed into this beautiful bright smile. Still remembering his face as if it was yesterday, I become emotional just thinking about it. Miracles do exist.
If not hindered by frequent power cuts, I delve into my email to see my friends probing me as to what I do all day. Yet how does one explain that there is no time to get bored? Such a great mix! Armed with bullhorns and banners, protests and political rallies continue almost on a daily basis. Streets are filled with stands and stores that offer colorful tapestries, gems, jewelry, native handicrafts and loads of shiny glittering objects. Tourists from all over the world stop here to enjoy the unity of travelers, the surplus of yoga lessons, smoked corn on the cob for a nickel and dime in the squares, with vegan style restaurants abound, ancient stupas to be marvelled at and always a possibility to help out in a school or one of the many orphanages. Meanwhile rickshaws almost knock you down with the smell of incense from the many roadside shrines. What do you mean: “What do you do all day?”
