Under the wisdom of my companion, and her innate ability to gain temporary sustenance from barely nibbling at the chips that were on offer, we absconded to the deli across the road to resupply with the essentials. Bottles of water, Pringles, chocolate bars and to give Sarah the boost of energy that she had been so deprived of, counterfeit Red Bull. Or 'Gold Cow' as it was known here. My novelty purchase, which would become one of my blessed acquisitions was a combination cigarette lighter and led torch gadget for the paltry sum of three for one dollar. Investments made, we circled the base of the hill in an attempt to find entry to the upper levels of the monolith. The first stone archway that we came across was highly decorated with visages of Buddhist images and seemed to be a logical start. There were some stairs that spiraled upwards into the unknown but at least appeared to be as good as any at this stage. Unfortunately it became apparent that this was not to be the case, and in fact led straight back towards our starting point of the questionable restaurant by means of a elaborate gantry sided by a series of prayer wheels.
Circling once more and passing said first entrance, we finally found ourselves at the legitimate entrance of the bottom of the hill where there were several small stupas scattered amongst the buildings that hugged the road side. Offerings were made by the various people that passed through the tall stone gates and traffic slowed to a halt to let the local population of monkeys run across the roads. For the Swoyambhu stupa was indeed known to the local populous as the “Monkey Temple and the namesake in itself became blindingly evident as the plethora of monkeys that inhabited the local area, be it hiding in the bushes and trees or running across the roof of the local police station, swarmed the area with reckless abandon. We sat down on the side step of the road to watch the spectacle before us. Monkeys danced across power lines and teased the stray dogs below them, leaping over the top of cars whilst stealing food stuffs from the sides of the road with impunity. It was here that my physically drained and starved comrade began to delve into her can of Gold Cow power drink. Sneaking a sip myself, the full strength taurine and caffeine mixture surely was a pep up in the realm of cheap amphetamines if nothing else. Bidding myself no more, Sarah sipped away as my requirements for nicotine took hold and we each indulged in our own collective vices. Whilst sitting on our step beside oversized copper prayer wheels, a group of crimson clad monks passed by quietly and made their way up the towering stairs behind us towards the stupa. It was clear that it was time to follow the pseudo holy procession and make our own pilgrimage to the top of the small mountain, where we were promised to have a wide vista view of the city and be immersed in the millenia old temples.
The crumbling steps ahead of us began at a relaxed pace, being rather spaced out and allowing for a leisurely trundle, as arrangements of smaller stupas and statues jutted out of the hillside in what could have been described as the remnants of geometric patterns. Rushing through the foliage on the outskirts of the ascending pathway ran families of monkeys, screeching with delight as they played the role of acrobat, swinging their way through the trees and onto the hand rails that ran the course of the path. On the flatter sections of steps, tiny stalls had been set up by local hawkers, peddling their wares to the unsuspecting tourist. We decided on novelty head ware at one such stall, unsure if they would be gifts for back home or just hilarity to wear out whilst drunk on rum later on. A fatal mistake. For upon seeing us part with our money on needless and useless crap at the previous tables, the final hawker, with his menagerie of nick nacks and crap statues was eager for our attention. As he was biding his time until we would undoubtedly stop and inspect his table of variety, the persistent shop keeper methodically went over his assortment of goods and vocalised the price of each, querying if we would like two or more. I waved him off and made my way up the steps. Sarah, unfortunately, was blissfully unaware of this exchange as she found herself enchanted by the singing bowls, turning the wooden stick around the rim of the mass produced bowl, allowing it to vibrate at an audible tone. Jumping at the chance of a quick sale for the afternoon, he put on his classiest front and engaged Sarah into the bargaining process.
Since we had not just arrived that afternoon and had a vague idea of suitable prices, it was quickly obvious that the afternoon lucky price being put on offer was indeed extortionate for its true value. Speeches indicating that the bowls in his possession were made of five different metals and manufactured by hand in an ancient process which merited its price fell on deaf ears, as this process was indeed ancient and had not been practiced for generations. Sarah, in her humanitarian kindness, was unable to pull herself away, but still looked at me in desperation and hope for an escape. Again waving our street seller away and taking Sarah by the hand, I disengaged the exchange and pushed her gently up the hill. Such aghast was felt by the seller of bowls that the prices suddenly dropped dramatically. Not to a logical level however, but still vastly under his previous best pricing. Feeling the urge to barter swelling inside me, I counter offered with a deeply undercut price and the exchange began in earnest. Feigning a combination of genuine disinterest and a penchant for walking away and shooing Sarah further along, not to mention the fact that we were beginning to draw an audience amongst the other pilgrims on the trail, our man relented and settled on a fairly realistic price. Although I did not particularly want the singing bowl in question, having done the barter dance, a singing bowl was nonetheless acquired and we were once again free to make the ascent up the foreboding stairway ahead unaccosted.
We continued our way up the ever increasing inclination of the steps leading up to the stupas and we found ourselves waining in energy. As neither of us were particularly sporty people, such exertions of energy required stops to catch our breath with cigarettes and the consumption of more 'Gold Cow'. It was at one of our spontaneous breaks that the monkeys began to congregate around us, no doubt smelling the spring rolls that were still stuffed inside our backpacks and pockets. Leaping overhead between the trees and corralling us as we walked, we soon found ourselves surrounded and vastly outnumbered. One larger monkey with a little more confidence than the others crawled across the handrails and reached out and snatched the can of caffeine infused drink out of Sarah's hand. With a hiss from the primate and a wail from the she-beast, the exchange was complete. With new found adrenaline the lagging energies were quickly recharged and Sarah began to race up the steps. I threw the last of my biscuits in a wide berth behind us and followed Sarah up the hill as the monkey overlords scattered and were preoccupied by the flying foodstuffs enabling our escape. The standard monkeys were bad enough without having to negotiate with one that was soon to be hopped up on caffeine and looking for it's next fix.
Finally upon reaching the apex of this monastery built on the mountain, we elected to go to the sidewall and to once more catch our breath. Obviously this was also the required time to chain smoke another couple of cigarettes to get the blood pumping again. Standing before a low stone wall, there before us was an uninterrupted view of the Kathmandu basin, a rolling and brightly coloured city of stone and concrete encapsulated by snow capped mountain ranges. The large stupas behind rose a dozen meters into the air and was hemmed by various strands of coloured flags and skirted by a ring of metal prayer wheels. As is expected by tradition, we walked the circumference of the stupas in a clockwise direction, spinning all of the metal wheels. At certain points this procession would be halted either due to a blissfully ignorant tourist going in the opposite direction or by a family of monkeys that had made parts of the temple their home and would jump out and scamper across the stone yard at will and jump over the sleeping stray dogs at random. Due to our previous engagement at the museum, it was already verging close to closing time for the quaint market area perched on the side of the temple and as the locals and tourists began to pack up and leave, we found ourselves exploring the other sections of the temple complex in a much more relaxed and quiet manner. Whilst the site itself did not have a closing time or curfew this meant that, whil
e we would not be thrown out, we were definately on our own to contend with the rival gang warfare being waged between the wildlife. Moving through the complex, we were greeted by more schools of monkeys as they made their way back to their nocturnal homes, scampering over statues and strays, leaping fences and low walls. The symphony of haunting monkey noise could be heard echoing all over the grounds.
Quickly the night engulfed the temples and we made a judgement call that it was probably time to leave the lovers and religious to their mountain sanctuary as we descended the gentle slopes of the opposite side of the hill. At the base of the stairs, it soon became apparent that we had arrived back to the suspect cafe that we had started off at – twice - and our complete unwillingness to walk back over the other side of the river suddenly became overwhelming. It didn't help that we were completely unaware as to exactly where we were in relation to home. As we stood on the road side contemplating our next move, one of the small hatchback taxis pulled up beside us and we were assured that Freak Street was a known destination and he would take us there for the paltry sum of a couple of dollars. And let’s face it, with that convenience on offer, who could complain or deny the service?
The traffic had built up around the city as locals made their way towards home and whilst our driver was vocally confident that he knew about all of the side streets and had the access to get us to our destination in a timely manner, it should have been a clear indication that the dude probably didn’t have any of these things. Either way, we weaved across the roads as if there were truly no rules to obey, skirting between cars and motor bikes beeping horns at the local pedestrians going about their day on what passed as side walks. Driving in Kathmandu is a game of millimetres. The narrow streets and blind corners that dominate the residential areas are sporadically paved and uneven at best, with open storm water channels dropping off the side lines of the road or occasionally covered in pieces of timber. Combined with the plethora of motorbikes through zipping where they can while vans and small and large four wheel drives alike would also attempt to bully their way through absurd spaces that could logically not accommodate them. Many times on this journey towards the safety of our run down hotel, we would find our car barely scraping past walls and occasionally knocking into motorbikes and pedestrians whilst trying to oblige to the domination of larger forms of transport.
Finally we crossed the river and found ourselves on the one way roads that would run freely and the journey continued unabated. We arrived at what we were assured was Freak Street and out of apathy and exhaustion, we paid our man and let him on his way. Taking in the surrounds, it quickly became clear under the fluorescent lit darkness that this was the stupa and temple district that we had passed at the beginning of our walk this morning. Knowing that we were only approximately twenty minutes walk south from home it seemed logical at the time to make haste and be on our way. The night threw cascading shadows over the winding walls and from the stupa square, the numerous side streets spilling out in every direction all looked the same. After subsequently taking the wrong route and winding back at the start of this confusing labyrinth numerous times, we finally found our way to the pungent river once more . . . only this being west and we were wanting to be north. We trekked forwards under the pale moonlight, absent of any street lights, and found our path lit by the subtle glow from groups of locals huddled around small road side fires, fuelled by the copious amounts of rubbish spilling out of the various vacant lots.
Bypassing the unseen dangers and myriad of smells of the back alleys, my companion found herself nearing a hypoglycaemic attack due to the previous event of monkeys stealing our only supplies and so with sweet reassurances that I knew the way and a hail of “not much further now beast”, we finally made it back to where we knew we should be. The bright lights, hash dealers and cacophony of noise greeted us as we emerged, scraping our feet into the tourist district and subsequently made our way to the safety of our prized Jessie James restaurant to devour our equal weight in buffalo wings and bowls of pasta. Being sufficiently sated, we made our way back through the side streets to our crumbling abode and with the exhaustion of the day found sleep willingly with the help of whisky and copious amount of gummi bears. At least I did. For again, as would be tradition, Sarah stayed up much longer into the night with the delirium of insomnia.
Chapter Ten - Gangsters and Ganja, Lost Women And Sister Cities
After a fairly mundane day of shopping for trinkets and over-sized wooden masks, we opted to end the night with what became customary - sheeshas and cocktails. Greeted with the usual smiles and warmth of the Isis Bar bartenders, we partook in multiple flavours of tobacco and washed them down with increasingly potent booze. With the delightful effects of liquor spreading through our bodies, we bid our friends and Nepalese language teachers farewell and instead of taking the stairs down to the crowded streets, we opted to go further up to the famed 'Purple Haze' rock bar. As expected, this dank den of Nepalese rock and roll had a smattering of tourists mixed in with the local population getting their groove on to horrendous renditions of classic eighties and nineties tunes belted out in a well-played yet horribly sung Engrish standard Asiatic karaoke bar fashion. Making our way past the crowd dancing in front of the stage we quickly found ourselves at the bar and acquired the necessary scotch and coke before moving towards the rear of the establishment to find ourselves a table.
Sitting down with a group of locals we made pleasant introductions and Sarah was drawn into conversation. The temperature in the room was considerably higher than the crisp outside mountain air and as a result, the ponchos and beanies that were a requirement earlier now found themselves to be a hindrance. Thankfully, we brought along an empty back pack which was now stuffed full of all of our extra layers. I returned back to the bar with a taste for something different, for surely one litre cans of beers were calling my name, as was the dance floor. After a short time spent dancing embarrassingly and finding myself considerably drunker with the combination of various concoctions, I made my way back to our table where I had previously left Sarah and our bags of belongings, but not before ordering another sheesha to be brought out to the table. Sarah herself was deep in conversation and a customary joint and found herself being constantly hit on by the locals. With the band finishing their set, they too found their way over to Sarah to continue the mating rituals of their people. Sitting back with my over-sized beers and smoking implements, I watched this debacle unfold before me. Whilst we were indeed sitting with some low level Nepalese gangsters smoking mountain koosh in a dingy and morally vacant establishment, the beautiful she-beast with her asexual standoff nature and disinterest in all but conversation swiftly but gently shut down each advance. The singer, now being shunned off from his target, found conversation with me. After telling me of his life in the mountain slums and the difficulties of living off a musicians wage, questions began to be asked of the nature of my relationship with Sarah. The idea of a platonic friendship seemed like an abstract novelty, and whilst I cared deeply for her, her disinterest and nausea at the idea of physical relationships proved that pushing this point would be futile. Such conversations had already been had days earlier. Not content with this answer, the North Asian Jim Morrison attempted to interrupt the conversation Sarah was in to press her for answers, but this was once again waved off.
Becoming drunker and less stable on my feet it was thankfully time to leave, collecting our things we stumbled down the stairs and made uneven tracks for home. Walking these now deserted streets through the tourist district towards the unpaved back roads where our hotel was located, conversation swayed to how all men ought to be viewed as potential rapists and how nothing can be trusted. Taking slight offence, I drunkenly disagreed. This led to a somewhat heated conversation in vain attempts to defend my species and giving examples that were barely grasping at straws. Thankfully, the four meter high steel gateway that blocked the entry to our hotel stood in our way and as a result halted conversation and distracted
thoughts as to how it could be traversed so we could sleep. In the over-confidence that only copious amounts of alcohol can only achieve, it was decided to call on the inner ninja monkey and scale this impasse. This surprisingly proved to be quite easily done and finding the front door to the hotel unlocked, we made our way up the stairs to our room. The feisty she-beast is not one to drop an argument easily when inebriated, so the conversation quickly swung back to the perils of man and in an effort to remove myself from the rapidly escalating situation, I went and sat on the balcony to smoke cigars and hope in vain that everything would cool down. It was here that I passed out in the cold mountain air . . . only to be revived hours later by Sarah, who deciding that I had suffered sufficient amounts of punishment for my crimes, tucked me into bed before I contracted hypothermia and certain death.
The new dawn brought about another day of hotels swaps and while our bags had been packed for the movement phase, we were also planning on shipping home the miscellaneous goodies and crap that we had accumulated on our days spent shopping. It was at this point that we realised that all of Sarah's belongings were missing. Her poncho, passport, purse, ID and cards were all AWOL. Basically everything that she needed to survive in these far off lands. As I had done in Bangladesh, Sarah frantically tipped open everything she owned and we searched the room from top to bottom. After a fruitless search, we cursed the Satan that is alcohol and concluded with certainty that the over-friendly gangsters that we had befriended the night before had also stealthily stolen all her possessions. Whilst Sarah wrote SOS e-mails back home, I attempted to make myself useful and gathered up our shippable items and started to make my way downstairs with the intention to visit the local goods transportation store. With one arm filled with bags of trinkets and the other carrying an over-sized wooden Ganesh cranium, I made slow progress down the uneven street that bordered our hotel. While I obviously had no hands, patience or empathy to spare, an elderly lady and a small child nonetheless began to shadow my walk and incessantly ask for bottles of milk and money for milk products for the child. Knowing this was indeed a scam, I continued my brisk walk of indifference. As it turns out, the woman and peasant child were not the only ones hunting me this morn . . . one of the staff members from the hotel was also chasing me down. Having caught up to me, breathless, he explained that they had found what could be some of our things and enquired if I would come back and identify them. With hopes soaring, I ventured back to the reception desk with my friendly compadre. And there, sitting on the desk, was indeed Sarah's purple poncho, her purse, complete with all of her ID, cards, money and slips of paper with vital passwords and PINS displayed on it. Not a thing had been touched. All I could gather was that we had left it outside, either when we scaled the walls of Mordor or as we stumbled up the stairs and had up-ended the bag to find the key to our room. Skipping back up the ludicrously steep stairs, I found Sarah curled in a fetal position on the bed, chain smoking and contemplating the worst of situations that could befall a traveller in the third world. With the words of relief spoken, she burst into smiles and laughter and emailed her father that the crisis has been averted. A mocking reply of just a meme containing a retarded kid and the words “Look at me! I can count to potato!” was all that was required from home and so the happy days surely lay ahead.
Journeys Beyond the Front Door Page 7
