Chapter VII: Into The Throngs Of Palaces And Beggars
Our taxi ride through the center of the capital Kathmandu slowed to a crawl and allowed for the sights, sounds and smells of this high mountain city to permeate our being as much as our first day of daylight viewing allowed us. The city itself was defiantly over-crowded, with the streets themselves filled with a plethora of motorbikes and hatchback four wheel drives stuffed full of backpacks and mountain gear. Awkwardly making their way through the crowds were the oversized tourist buses and people movers I had spied the night before, with bewildered, camera-toting passengers lining the windows as their roofs were loaded with baggage and tied down precariously with various coloured strapping.
A common thread that twisted its way throughout were the addition of masks worn by pedestrians and motorists to cover their faces from the plumes of pollution and exhaust fumes that were both stagnant and palpable in the air. The cityscape itself ranged from large, open fields with ancient structures adorned with statues and lakes behind vast gates and fences, modern glass-encased buildings sporting large and obnoxious advertising signs to crumbling multi-storied structures from centuries past, all within minutes of each other. Whilst the main arterial roads were well paved with unbroken bitumen, once you diverted to the backstreets, the surface changed sporadically between paving which rattled even the sturdiest suspension to tracts befit of solid coverings, with edges of paving and stones protruding through the rock and vast expanses of pot holes. As a result, our transportation took its time to negotiate its path across the multiple conditions as we bounced around in the back seats, thankful to have our bags surrounding us to soften the blows.
Eventually after traversing the side streets and pedestrian clogged alleys of the tourist district, we arrived at the Kathmandu Guest Hotel, a converted palace from days gone by. Strolling through the elaborate hallways of this establishment, we passed various religious statues and ornate paintings nestled between in-house shopping experiences of Nepalese jewellery and massage parlous en route to the guest rooms. Being a hotel that had only been booked days beforehand on a whim as a result of the political dissent back in Bangladesh, we surprisingly lucked out with this choice. The room itself overlooked the peaceful internal gardens of the complex, skirted with large white stone statues and flower beds whilst the end of our walkway housed elaborate bronze statues depicting various mythological gods. The room itself was spick and span, with two separate beds, a small bathroom and a desk and chair which overlooked what can only be assumed was the parking lot / sporting ground of a local elementary school.
Leaving this fine establishment with the stench of our backpacks, we found ourselves squarely in the middle of the tourist district of Thamel and felt committed to the decision to walk around and aimlessly choose directions at random to gain a feel of the district. After all, if things went too badly, there was always the option of hailing a taxi. Much to our relief, we were no longer the object of abstract novelty for being the only whites in the village and found a sense of anonymity in the throngs of crowds. Winding their way through the narrow streets mixed a healthy measure of vehicles, hikers and bikes, all making their way in both directions at a walking pace with polite toots of horns to notify of each other's presence. There was truly a fluid madness at work. Another key fixtures that would become part of the scenery of this city were the walking street sellers of musical instruments and tiger balm, the incessant offerings of hashish, cocaine and mountain ganja from hoodlums of various walks of life and the begging scams. Having the luxury of a modest amount of traveling experience in the past, combined with a healthy amount of apathy, such attempts of monetary extortion fell on deaf ears. Unfortunately, for my novice companion, she still held onto her humanist beliefs and empathy for the dire situations of street kids and found herself a modest target for such tactics. Dirty-faced street children would circle the tourists pleading their case of social injustice with hands outstretched out in the hopes of money.
Whilst impassioned by their pleas, it took quite some work to teach my blessed companion to ignore all that was before us and to keep the advice regarding scams and tactics we read before our trip at the forefront of our minds – most notably, how most of their gains would go to an organised crime ring leader, and that the giving of money would encourage the situation and, in fact, make the situation worse for them. Much like any gang, once life in these rings was established, there was generally few pathways out for these children. It would either be to up grading to hashish and drug dealing, or being physically mutilated by their captors to extend the sympathy for an ever ageing child. For the girls there was always prostitution. It was thus agreed amongst ourselves that I would teach dear Sarah the immortal art form known as the 'beggar wave' - the undignified shooing away of the destitute. A compromise was to be made and so we armed ourselves with kangaroo and koala key rings and opened packets of biscuits for the more persistent children. We deliberately opened packets in the knowledge that they could not then be re-sold once passed back to the handlers, and in that regard, there was a small ray of hope that these kids might be allowed to eat them for themselves. The key rings were pure novelty value. There was no re-sale value nor value to other tourists. For children that have nothing, a small trinket given by strangers that they just might be able to keep for themselves or at least trade with the other street urchins provoked the desired result. Upon seeing the key ring begotten children on subsequent days, waves and smiles would be exchanged, whereas the food children would just endlessly pester and request more.
The main tourist district consisted of a couple of dozen interconnecting, winding roads filled with brightly lit shops hawking all manners of bizarre items. The main repeating trend of shops, as is tradition with such mountain areas, was hippy clothing stores, silvered jewellery and beads, stone, wood and metal carved statues and masks, handicrafts and paintings, as well as the obligatory hiking supplies and army depot stores filled to the brim with menacing knives and swords. As we made our way out of the tourist district and into the heart of the town to the land of local inhabitants, the building design slowly changed from bright and reasonably well-presented structures into century old ramshackled multi-storied stone buildings clad with ornate carved wooden window fixings and incredibly small doorways. The crowds, however, seemed to increase in volume the further we walked. The locals went about their day, paying offerings to the multiple stupas and temples spread all over the city, bustled around doing their own shopping at the various food markets and open air butcheries or just milling around in groups, conversing over plates of food. Amongst all of this was the constant flow of motor bikes and scooters weaving through the crowds, kicking up dust and dirt from the road and mixing with the smog and pollution that bellowed from exhaust pipes. After witnessing the locals with their face masks and experiencing the cause for this logic, it became evident that this would be a necessity in the coming days, lest we both end up with a heinous chest infection.
Making our way through this city, with no particular objective in mind, we came across a high walled compound with a small doorway, tucked away off the main road. Curiosity peaking, we entered what would be known as the 'Garden of Dreams', a former palace that had been left to rot for centuries until being restored in the last couple of decades by Austrian benefactors. Thankfully for us they did, as this vast and delicate garden provided a welcomed retreat from the hustle and chaos of the streets. The impressive stone walls were tall and imposing enough block out practically all of the noise from the outside world and provided a tranquil environment amongst the finely manicured gardens. The large pond acted as a focal point of the complex, with pathways and hedge lines radiating out to provide secret gardens within secret gardens. Sarah found her quiet place seated cross-legged between two statues on the grass in front of the fountain and began to meditate. Not being skilled in the arts of self-awareness through quiet, internalized thought patterns, I found myself exploring the nooks of the garden. Small chi
pmunk-like critters ran along the external walls and melted into the vines cascading the upper reaches. Ancient trees entangled their limbs in morose sculpture over stone bench seats and decorated vases. On a far side of the complex stood a strangely arranged bamboo swing set constructed from three long lengths of bamboo that were bent to intersect approximately five meters above ground, with a swing seat tethered to it. As I slowly walked the garden path, I kept an eye on the swing and waited for the small children to finish their turn. As they finished, I quickly changed my course and made a direct line for the swing with childish delight. The spiritual one ventured back into the fray and also requested a turn on the swing and in an emotionally recharged way embraced the inner giggle child within. We eventually left this delightful swing set to let the small children have their turn and we continued our walk around the perimeter, and against the advice of the many stone carved signs, we found ourselves pocketing various sacred stones from the pathways for momentos and gifts.
As the evening began to present itself, we navigated the streets back towards the theoretical general direction of the tourist area and hotel, only to find ourselves standing outside the beckoning stairway entry to the Isis Sheesha Bar and Restaurant. As if chain smoking our way through copious amounts of cheap cigarettes and inhaling the exhaust dust mixture throughout the day was not enough torment for the lungs, we logically agreed that a few cheeky rounds of flavoured tobacco and cocktails to celebrate the first legitimate day in Nepal was just what the doctor had ordered. We ascended the stairwell and took note of the Purple Haze rock bar off to the left hand doorway at the top of the stairs before continuing forward into the land of Arabic smoking implements. The restaurant was colourfully decorated with hanging lanterns, fluorescent lighting and multi-coloured mosaic tiling splashed all over the walls. Welcomed by a grinning waiter, we were sat down to a large, low wooden table with a bench of cushions to one side and a woven lounge chair with equal amounts of cushioning. Taking my place on the chair and allowing the she-beast to have the bench with her back against the wall, we were both able to stretch out and survey the establishment. Being one of the only occupied tables, the service was exceptionally quick and before too long, we were presented with our flavoured smoke and margaritas. Drinks clinked and by the time they were finished, replacements had already been delivered. The staff, obviously not having the busiest of days, found themselves milling around our table with questions being thrown at us out of niceties and as we grew more curious of our companions own stories, we began to throw questions back. It became quite apparent that such courtesy shown to the staff from patrons was an exceptionally rare thing from the usual clientele at the Isis. The two delightful wait staff, Sonam and Samesh, took turns to sit and talk with us whilst another sidekick made his rounds of the room before coming back with more cocktails and a refresher for the sheesha. Food was recommended once it dawned that after half a dozen cocktails, which grew stronger at each passing, only Pringles had been consumed this day. While we waited for our feasts, much talk was had of the situation these boys found themselves living in Kathmandu, leaving their home villages in search of work and education opportunities in between long hours of study and working seven days a week . . . only having only a few hours of sleep at the most amongst it all. The drunker we became, the more enthused we were to learn the local language and before too long napkin after napkin was filled with “how to” guides for the most convenient and useful phrases that would serve us well during our time in their land.
After copious amounts of tequila laced drinks and a delicious feed, it was surely time to leave. Quite conveniently it was also closing time for this establishment and a suitable time to off-load more koala key rings to our new found friends. The exchanging of gifts from tourist to local was as puzzling to the adults as it was to the street urchins, but upon realisation that nothing was expected of them in return, the sentiment of general good will and nothing more became palatable and accepted. The stash of key rings that were brought out on the outing were thusly divided equally out to the rest of the Isis staff as to be re-gifted to good homes with their younger siblings. Stumbling down the stairs, we again bid our farewells to the staff and strolled like pickled tramps the barely one hundred meters back to our abode. Waving like drunkard idiots to the door security, we were thankfully granted access and made our way into our room to pass out for a sound sleep.
Chapter VIII - Descending Unto the Other Side of the River
Awakening the following afternoon to the fragrant cesspit that was our room, the stench of the week old damp socks and crusty clothing tucked inside our bags mixed with the tequila filth emitting from our pores did not bode well for the intended productivity that would now not rear its face this day. With uneven feet and swaying stomachs, our laundry was stuffed into napsacks and a local laundromat was sought out so that the problem of disgusting clothing could be passed over onto some poor sap. To be fair, everything that was brought on this trip was also sent for a sanitising just for an excuse to don the new patchwork hippy attire as, to quote a term overheard by others, we had indeed gone native.
The afternoon itself was spent wandering the area and discerning what trinkets and novelty items to purchase down the warren of streets and alleyways that interconnected them. The military presence had in itself picked up and it was surely not uncommon to find half a dozen men in uniform with truncheon and antiquated rifles stalking the streets or standing around intersections attempting to manage the maniacal traffic. Whilst the presence of such men of order had been a constant backdrop throughout our journey, it was still amusing to be able to purchase large military grade Ghurka knives and hashish within meters of said armed soldiers.
With assortment of trinkets and statues jammed inside my backpack and plastic bags over-flowing with newly acquired hippie pants, patchwork jumpers and ponchos, the shopping for the day had concluded and so we retreated to a western-themed restaurant near the hotel for dinner. The Jessie James Bar and Grill Restaurant became a saving grace over the next couple of days with plenty of standard menu offerings, as well as the first salads to be had in over a week. The Tibetan soups and Nepalese dishes were what was being sought after here on this occasion. A spicy broth to shake the impending chest infections being brought on by the pollution in the air and not helped by the near two packs per day chain smoking habit we had seemed to have lapsed into. If the broth didn't work, there was always the option of ill-gotten antibiotics we acquired from street vendors to be washed down with scotch.
Unfortunately, our time at the refurbished palace had come to a close and we relocated to the nearby Madhuban Guest House. Whilst we caught a taxi to this location, in essence it was only on the street behind where we were. Having said that, it could well have been another world away. Once leaving the kaleidoscope of colour of the tourist lane and entering Freak Street, the foundations and upkeep of buildings considerably found their way into decline. At the end of Freak Street, the glitz of fluorescent lights and racks of clothing for sale ended in a small stone stupa. Turning left from here on in, the street scene changed to decrepit, crumbling buildings, with store fronts designated for the locals merchants, as indicated by the battered roller doors and the sheer numbers and increasing sizes of the pot holes we encountered.
Arriving at the guest house, we were greeted by Amar, the manager, who helped bring our bags up the four flights of stairs to our room on the top floor. Upon entry, Sarah's heart dropped as the blissful experience of the former palace gave way to the cramped room with its singular bed and miniature broken television. With wallpaper disintegrating on sections of the wall and a window missing, a closet that refused to open and a broken toilet seat, this room was now dubbed “Little Baghdad”. But nonetheless, it was a place to sleep and we were content with that.
Whilst we had checked in and unpacked what was necessary for our stay, the tour guide that I had previously arranged via e-mail from Australia before we had departed for the third world suddenly arrived
at the guest house and a meeting was promptly scheduled on the roof balcony to discuss payment and the like. Romand met us with a dubious-looking associate of his and explained the adventure we had indeed signed up for. Over the Christmas period, we would be riding elephants in the middle of the Chitwan national park at what was pitched as a wildlife sanctuary. Our hotel, so I was told, was nestled in the park itself, with animals such as rhinoceros, deer and elephants having free reign to roam the ground. There would also be a smattering of canoe and jeep trips throughout the jungle. This indeed sounded acceptable. We paid out the remaining six hundred dollars and as he gleefully counted his money, he informed us that he would be out of town but his associate would pick us up from our next hotel and would look after us from there. Sarah was immediately suspicious but this sounded close enough in my eyes and so he bid us farewell and descended the stairs as we sat and contemplated if we had just been scammed or not.
Armed with a tourist map we had acquired at the previous hotel, today's mission was to visit the natural history museum and the large hillside temple complex on the western edges of the city, on the other side of the main river. With a vague direction in mind, we disembarked the hotel and made our way down the broken streets away from the glitzy tourist area and towards the legitimate ghetto areas that were inhabited by the locals. Judging by the map, it was simply a case of moving in a southerly direction and then to the west, crossing over one of the few footbridges that spanned the gaping river and then following the ring road around to find such hidden sites. Although it did state that the map was not quite to scale, it was deemed that a walking adventure would suffice and there would be no need for additional transport.
Journeys Beyond the Front Door Page 5
