Strolling down the cobbled and worn streets, we were quickly befriended by another of the local gutter urchin scams that frequent these parts. In this particular case, it was the “milk bottle scam”. The old MBS. An old woman with downtrodden eyes and awkward gait pulled a small dirty barefoot child along the road and with highly articulate English engaged the naive humanist of our troop of two in conversation. After the necessitates of small talk about how we were enjoying their lands and appreciated the depth of their culture and relayed where it was that we hailed from were concluded, the nature of this engagement came to a head. Whilst her situation was emphatic and obviously leaning into the facade of being destitute and in need of help, there was no asking of coinage directly to be had, but if we could just find it in our blackened hearts to follow her down to a pre-designated shop and buy her bottles of milk that she would then in turn feed to her starving child. Evidently, she was unaware of our prior knowledge that the shop itself would sell us the milk at a highly inflated price and as the deal would have it, the destitute would then sell the milk back to the shop at a negotiated rate. Both parties would gain a percentage of the profit from the good will of the ill-advised and the poor child would essentially get nothing. The unfortunate part of this is that the legitimate peasants that would be genuinely helped by such small gifts have been blind sided by the organised scams to the point that people are advised through guides and staff to help no one. The sweet she-beast, still being a novice at handling situations such as this and unwilling to apply the now learned beggar wave hand techniques soon found herself deeply engaged and emotionally attached to the plight of the small innocent dirty-faced ones. Whilst it was her that had initially informed me of the scams that were in play and was in fact well aware that she was being played like the proverbial Sarangi, she found herself unable to pry herself away whilst I had continued walking pace and waved my hand with reckless abandon. As I returned and waddled myself back into the fray whilst positioning myself in between the negotiating parties, I took Sarah with one hand and whilst leading her away from the situation, applied the beggar hand wave with the other. As the protests being levelled against me of my inhumanities and obscene apathy, whilst to an extent were fair but not heeded, we briskly moved forward to our theoretical destination hoping that the mother and child were not acutely aware of where we were staying.
Whilst we had avoided the soon to be continual dance with the local scam artistry, once we turned off the main road towards the river, we were soon confronted by the other prevalence of Kathmandu. The stray dogs. Whilst these majestic animals are generally quite well looked after and fed and inhibit no signs of any aggression towards the procession of people and vehicles around them, what they do have is an extremely high sex drive. The people of Nepal are very much a early to bed early to rise kind of people, and once the midnight hour passes, all that can be heard through the chill mountain air is the howls of dogs organising their next hook up. It would appear that we had come across one of their preordained meetings as a dozen dogs stood around in a wide circle, wagging their tails and voicing their approval as they watched three pairs of dogs fucking in the street. There would be no public shame or concealment as a stream of people passed by, just lolled out tongues and enthusiasm.
Leaving this canine bukkake party in our wake, we eventually made our way to the river bank and began our search for a crossing. Just ahead of us loomed a chain link pedestrian suspension bridge and as it was decidedly closer than the stone traffic bridge over yonder, it was decided that this was indeed the path we would travel. Upon setting foot on the worn wooden planks of the bridge, the momentum of shifting weight began to make its effect known to us as with each treacherous step, the links creaked and swayed above the slow moving river. At the apex of our crossing, we stopped to take novelty photos with our travel mascots and paused to take in the vista at hand. Considering how close we were to the mouth of the river, cascading down from the fresh mountain glacial peaks that dwarfed the horizon, the water that passed beneath us had a putrid stench and slick glaze that reflected kaleidoscopes of pollution off the surface. We watched as gags of rubbish and discarded clothing floated lazily down the river, bobbing between decomposing cow corpses and stagnant dogs. Large sewer pipes poked through the river banks from which pumped a poisonous green-brown sewerage into the river. The banks themselves appeared to be the communal dumping ground of rubbish and the slopes swelled with undulating packaging and plastic as we watched local children tending to small rubbish fires.
Stray dogs made their way through the obstacle course whilst a procession of cows with minder in tow obediently wound their way through the more gentle slopes, finding sustenance in whatever food stuffs remained in the putrid piles of rubbish. Whilst we did not need to remind ourselves that this was indeed the realistic third world and not the envisioned fantastical mountain realms as anticipated and longed for from childhood dreams or romanticised nonsense, we still nonetheless found it heartbreaking to the extreme. As had been discussed with a variety of locals, sanitation and public health was low on the list of priorities for a government that was focused on enjoying corruption and cronyism nor was the environment a particular concern for the international aid organisations that required such events to justify their own existence and funding. And thus, so it would continue. Pristine resources would enter the city and come out as toxic waste. A “too-hard basket” that would continue to be ignored. While it is a fair claim that it would no doubt be a goliath task to combat, the logic that was employed was that it was better to just dump it in the river and let it float its way down to India. Problem solved.
Upon traversing the river, the realisation of irony dawned that we had indeed crossed to the other side of the tracks. Whilst the economic heart of the capital lay in the distance behind us, on this side of the river it quickly became more aligned with a desolate multi-storied urban slum. Crumbled malformed buildings selling chip packets and noodles became the standard while the stray dogs were shooed out of various broken doorways. Missing sections and nooks of masonry made way for the placement of miniature shrines, as incense competed with the fragrant open sewage. Abandoned buildings and hazardous paving opened up to fields of crops and vegetables nestled between structures and live stock made their way through the crowds nonchalantly. Further up the road, we finally came across the museum district, with a military camp on the right and the United Nations depot on the left, where rusting buildings and shipping containers with faded UN stamps scattered amongst wild gardens and broken trucks. The collapsing signs and structures were hidden behind razor wire and fences overgrown with vines. The camp on the other side, however, was bright and had been kept in good repair. Soldiers ran with full packs across neatly trimmed grassed areas whilst the guards manned the gates, slumped on chairs with hats covering their tired eyes.
Once we passed the myriad of sharpened metal wire, the natural history museum beckoned us forward with its high pale cream concrete walls and decaying facade. Paying a paltry couple of coins to the armed guard at the front desk for entry, we made our way into the open courtyard of another converted centuries old palace. A large, bone dry, concrete fountain stood in the middle of the grounds, flanked by wire mesh sculptures of elephants that were entwined in a creeping and twisting vine, as pale buildings stood watch along the perimeter. Starting in a logical clockwise fashion, we entered the first building to find it inhabited by millennial statues and carvings on display behind glass cases and under the watchful eye of more armed guards. Before us stood thousand year old ornate carvings, some systematically taken from palaces and other regal locations while others had been magically uncovered below the surface due to the excavation of foundations for new buildings. Still more were once scattered amongst the mountain sides and were used as markers along the spider web of trails until being pilfered and removed for prosperity. The remaining treasures were generously returned from foreign lands out of guilt for centuries of pillaging and thievery. I slowly s
talked the hallways and examined the antiquities with as much respect as a sober traveller can muster and I found myself gazing at the sheer vivid detail embossed and hard carved on highly decorated stone sculptures, whilst my moon child companion in her spiritual mysticism spoke of sensations and of feeling the powerful energies vibrating from some of the ancient holy ornaments. Being one completely out of tune with such things, I could not. I was however impressed and drawn by the detail but found nothing in the way of metaphysics. Moving into one of huge rooms at the back of the building, we came across the visage of an early century Buddhist teacher, sitting cross- legged, arms hanging slackly at the sides and bald head tilting backwards to the sky. Whilst not bearing any differentiating markings, the small plaque indicated that this was indeed a holy man and one of the first of whom had attained enlightenment and had become a focal point of meditation for generations. The energies radiating off this sculpture caused Sarah to stop in her tracks, stammer and then proceed to break out in goosebumps and she found that she was physically not able to stand before it. He did let me, however, rub his belly.
It was in this room that the gentle and tranquil silence of age old beauty would be banished from mortal ears as an unruly gang burst forth and like a blizzard rushed throughout the building and left their mark on everything inside. School children. These miniature versions of the Nepalese swept through the museum with sheets of paper and pencils in hand and dashed from room to room as they scribbled names and answers to questions in a hurried manner, squealing and shouting and presumably not taking in the significance of the highly skilled artisan artefacts that had been a focal point of their culture for thousands of years. It was, after all, a fun day away from the classroom for them. We smiled and waved at the small creatures and as the serenity dispersed, so did we.
Having completed a lap of this building, we made our way back out into the central courtyard and across the path towards the structure on the far side. Ascending a polished stone stairway to a carved wooden doorway, we entered the formal royal residency that had been converted into the natural history portion of the museum. The palace was formed in a cubed, figure-of-eight layout containing multiple floors, so as logic would dictate, we began on the ground floor. The lower floor itself housed a collection of stuffed and skeletal animals, both indigenous and from abroad. Whilst I had expected to see examples of tigers, yaks and other local mountain animals, what I had not anticipated was the various collections of whale bones throughout the rooms. Other sections of the museum were dedicated to assortments of different aspects of traditional Nepalese life, the different coins and monetary items used over the centuries under different dynasties, as well as collections of dolls and other examples of fabric handicrafts. A colourful wall of life size dioramas greeted us on our travels through this level, illustrating examples of local life - from the cave-dwelling Stone Age mannequins around the fire to farming and rural artisans crafting textiles. The final installation however confusingly portrayed what was assumed to be a hunter with a Peter Panesque hat and costume, anally violating a very displeased-looking mountain fox with a spear. The cultural significance of this one was lost on me.
The upper floor itself was dedicated to the different armour and warfare devices used throughout the old kingdoms. Elongated glass enclosures proudly demonstrated various examples of swords, knives and shields used to defend against the magnitude of invaders, whilst the tapestries and paintings that adorned the walls of these chambers spoke of the invaders themselves. A series of paintings portrayed the English imperialist seated regally upon elephants, traipsing through the mountains with the help of guides, indiscriminately killing the local majestic wildlife and attempting to enslave the local populace. With the tour at its completion and the pangs of hunger giving way to a rapid decline of blood sugar levels, vertigo and whooziness started to set in and it was thus time to leave. The initial plan was to make a detour into the military museum across the way but it was agreed upon that it would no doubt just be more racks burdened with antiquated weaponry and showcases of the famed Ghurka soldiers that served this nation so well. Having seen small glimpses of that throughout this museum, it was onward bound, bypassing such repetitious actions . . . lest one of us dropped into a dehydrated-induced hypoglycaemic episode and met death on swift swings.
Chapter Nine - Questionable Spring Rolls and the Thirsty Monkeys
And so we exited the stone walled palace, bound for our next destination - the Swoyambhu stupa. This monumental giant was set upon a rather large hill that jutted out of the relatively flat ground of the surrounding area in the distance and while not knowing exactly how to get there, we at least had a very obvious landmark to work towards. As we walked down the road separating the military and the museum complex, it appeared that the small children were also done for the day and soon we found ourselves swamped by the noisy and inquisitive minion horde as they burst forth and skipped and shouted with a general disregard for all commands from the supervising adult that was left in their wake. As would continue to be a tradition, a small child befriended my dear companion and engaged her in conversation about universities and their future wish of study. It was apparent that the benefits of higher education had been engrained sufficiently upon the populace and they were aware of its ability to drag them out of the sheer and palpable poverty surrounding them and into a better life. I continued to chain smoke cigarettes during their one-sided questionnaire as I was not being drawn in as a result of no enquiries being directed towards myself and also by the enchantment that Sarah had on the small ones. Arriving at the broken stone intersection that lay ahead of us, our paths diverged and upon the gifting of token key rings, we departed and slowly made our way towards the looming templed hill on the horizon.
The thick layer of dust in this part of town swirled in the air as vehicles zoomed passed and bouts of uncontrolled coughing were interjected with the inhalation of tobacco. The air quality was not overly helped by the road works and sewer reconstruction efforts that were taking place along our chosen road side. Such sanitation efforts were overseen by the military as we meandered alongside the outskirts of their training facility as the street puppies danced amongst the weeds and weaved their way through the barbed wire that separated us from their grounds. Skipping over the loosely hung and sporadic barbed wire that would occasionally wander over the undulating pathway, we once again were greeted by quizzical stares from the local populace. In their sensible clothing and foot ware, the wandering gypsy beast and myself must have looked rather out of place, or at least would have provided some form of novelty value with our patchwork clothing and brightly coloured ponchos.
Once again the pangs of hunger made itself known and it could no longer be starved off by the inhalation of nicotine treats . . . it was time to find ourselves some food. We stopped at the first establishment we came across, a roof top café, where we tried to draw attention to ourselves to gain service but to no avail. The waitstaff-come-chef was busily cooking for the group of guests that had already occupied the prime roof top portion of the limited seating arrangements. Upon realising that we would not be getting any food any time soon - nor the seats in the sun with the view that we had desired - it became obvious that it was time to push forward and find another establishment. It was at this point amidst the delirium of hunger and low blood sugar that upon closer inspection of the interior of the café, I witnessed my first genuine culture clash. A monk on Facebook. In his brightly coloured red cloak, shaved head and sandals, he occupied one of the computers against the wall with his back towards us and must have overheard our delighted gasps and giggles as we took in the glorious sight before us. Hiding behind a pillar with camera in hand I acquired documentation at what was, in our throws of hunger, a vastly amusing vision of a sheepishly grinning holy man transcending and combining millennia of traditions. No longer was a monk expected to live in a time of isolation on a desolate mountainside, devoid of the outside world and its perils.
Laughing, w
e frolicked with glee up the path and soon found ourselves at the base of the mountain, confronted with a small restaurant wedged between crumbling textile sellers and I decided that I would indeed throw fate to the wind and test the will of the gods. I had always been told to eat at places where tables were filled, as this indicated not only popularity and good food but also the element of hygiene. Devoid of patrons but with walls filled with rock and roll and heavy metal memorabilia, I decided against better judgement from both my dear companion and the small voices of rationality in the brain and decided that it would be here that I shall dine. Ordering a mixed fried rice and combination spring rolls for myself and a side of potato chips for the she-beast, our waiter became a chef and with not too much delay my meal was served, albeit without the spring rolls. Thankfully the suspect mystery meat mixture fried rice was of abundant proportions and filled the cavity once occupied by cheap cigarettes. Other travellers became enticed by the pale faces occupying the front tables and also entered our feast domain and made themselves at home. Upon completion of this meal and being ready to leave . . . the spring rolls finally made their appearance. Not wanting them now but being of such pleasant disposition, they were graciously accepted, paid for, put into napkins and mashed into our pockets to be taken along on the journey to the temples, where they were to be given as offerings to the stray animals that undoubtedly inhabited the area.
Journeys Beyond the Front Door Page 6
