It was thusly decided that we should now continue our mission of sending our excess belongings back home before moving onto the subsequent hotel and now with four hands making light work, we loaded up backpacks and plastic bags with our assortment of goodies. At the reception our blessed staffer convinced us that we should take a rickshaw to the shop as it would no doubt be more convenient than walking. Having ventured out once before and knowing what and whom lay in wait, coupled with the fact that we could just not be assed waddling down the street carrying this obscene weight, I could only agree and we waited whilst he made some phone calls. As our chariot arrived, the poor old bastard riding it looked at our mountains of things, at us and then back to our bags and reluctantly agreed to take us. This skinny elderly man, who was clearly breaching into his near seventies, proceeded to peddle his way up the steep incline of broken streets and unstable cobblestones with the two of us aboard and well over fifty kilograms of novelties. We both exchanged looks of guilt and with the she-beast giving me condescending looks and sharp nudges to the ribcage, I finally jumped out of the carriage and helped push the rickshaw up the hill. Still, that man indeed earned his three dollars that day and he was well pleased with the exchange.
Upon handing over the shame of our shopping excesses to the shipping crew, we returned back to the hotel to re-pack our essentials and make our way to the new hotel. Whilst not knowing exactly where it was in the city - apart from a piece of printed paper with a vague location on it - we were assured that the taxi driver under the direction of our current hotel knew the way and it was quickly agreed that we would get a lift over with their man. They did at least seem to be in some sort sort of certain agreement as to the direction it was in, so we shrugged, exhausted from the diabolical morning events and jumped in. After half an hour of driving in circles and arriving at similarly named but nonetheless completely wrong hotels, our driver stopped and asked an assortment of people for directions and quizzed the locals as to where it was we should be. Our new hotel turned out to be a few doors down from the shipping store, in the opposite direction that we had been travelling in the taxi. Typical. Regardless, we finally arrived and paid off the driver before walking through the welcoming gates and into the sunny and sublime gardens of the Thamel Eco Resort where a young man escorted us up yet another flight of endless stairs to our new abode. Again going through the routine of throwing our bags to the ground, we dropped onto our individual beds and breathed a sigh of relief, revelling in the bliss of warmth and comfort. Our upper floor balcony overlooked the colourful courtyard gardens which was centred around a below ground stupa and throughout the day, as we lazed around like swamp monsters, the staff began to pull out Christmas decorations and cover the gardens with fairy lights and tinsel. It was quite a strange notion to us – as staunch atheists - to watch these predominantly Hindu and Buddhist locals attempting to cater to the presumed western Christian tastes of their clientele who were far away from their homelands. While this certainly did not include us and we would of much preferred to watch them join us in lazing about in the sun, we certainly appreciated the tolerance these deeply spiritual and gentle souls displayed towards their foreign guests and the hand of friendship and acceptance they outwardly extended towards all people, regardless of faith. It was a refreshing change from the religious intolerance and aggression that we had seen dividing the world of late. Above the small table and chairs at the entrance to our room sat a large air conditioner, with various pipes funnelling down the wall. Where these pipes entered the wall of the room, the elongated hole had been made into a cosy home by a family of little blue birds and these cute little critters certainly added to the blissful ambience of this sanctuary.
With heavy lungs but increased spirits, we made our way back to our standard place for dinner to partake in some nasal clearing spicy Tibetan Thupka – a delicious traditional broth of the Nepalese people. Whilst we had noted that all of the locals wore bandit masks in the first few days of arriving in town, this was still one purchase that we had not made. But the rabid chest infections that had been induced by breathing in the surly toxic air and were threatening to morph into pneumonia were combated by this hearty mixture of spice and chilli and some street antibiotics washed down with scotch. In theory, we thought this would be an adequate substitute as the fluorescent phlegm gems were slowly being fought off. Somewhat.
Whilst eating our bowls of delight and listening to the local musicians playing their tribal beats across the way, we were approached by one of the local businessmen who helped run a small shop located on the same grounds as the restaurant. We had been past the shop earlier in the week, but had only glanced in as we sauntered past and had not taken much notice of the wares they had on offer. It was here that Dave, the English entrepreneur who had apparently made his fortune in advertising and marketing, handed out pamphlets for this local business and broke the ice by claiming that he had 'the worlds largest collection of photographs of famous people with tulips up their bums' and a tale of his childhood claim to fame of having an ex porn star-turned-nurse insert a suppository in his ass on more than one occasion. Having found these stories the epitome of hilarious, we immediately warmed to Dave and the conversation quickly took a more serious note and returned to the pamphlets.
Old mate Dave, you see, was basically helping to run a local social enterprise based on the recycling of the plethora of rubbish in Nepal, centred around a courageous and inspiring woman named Beni. Beni had a terribly tragic yet unfortunately all too common back story. Beni and her team of local ladies would gather all manner of rubbish and refuse from the mountain trails and surrounding towns of Nepal and, with some ingenuity, turn them into an assortment of beautiful and unique goods and handicrafts. Sacks, chip packets, old tires and rice bags were converted into colourful purses, scarves, bowls and bags and this joint venture effectively was turning what was an environmental abortion into a livelihood and hope for these otherwise destitute women and their children.
The horrendous plight of women in this small mountain kingdom cannot be understated. Forced and underage marriages are still very common in Nepal and a lot of weight is put into old patriarchal superstitions. The result of this is that many girls are burdened with the fate of incredibly primitive and abhorrent practices, such as being doused in petrol and set on fire for the abomination of not producing male children. In some of the mountain villages, it was also still common practice that when girls reach their teens and begin the natural process of menstruation, they are considered unclean by their male counterparts and are immediately banished from the villages to live in the barns with the animals. Many die from hypothermia from sleeping on straw in the elements. The ones that were “lucky” enough to have been married off, consummated. Needless to say, a lot of women like Beni, have fled from such situations, even under the threat of retribution and death and with a lack of any social safety net, they find themselves in dire need of assistance indeed. Beni, however, on fleeing her plight became a midwife and spent many years travelling throughout the countryside, helping women give birth, before being mentored in the role that she would find herself in now.
It was upon hearing these horrors and admiring the wares that Beni’s shop had on show that we remembered all the school supplies and books that we had dragged halfway across the world and through the riots of Bangladesh, in our quest to find them a good home. Beni and her shop was exactly the place we had been looking for. So before we bid farewell, we heartily agreed that this cause was more than deserving of our paltry offerings and before the night was through, we had come back with bags of school supplies to donate to these ladies and their children. Whilst they would not be able to convert these pens and pads and assorted what-nots into items to sell in their shop, no doubt they would find their way into the hands of the children and in that regard, we could be assured that they would be put to good use in the future.
There had been a grand plan for the following day. It had been decided prior that we woul
d partake in the free yoga and meditation classes that were on offer in the mornings before making our way to the old city of Patan located on the other side of the city. Unfortunately, due to sheer exhaustion, embattled immune systems, broken bodies and the continual pressing of the snooze button on our alarms, we slept through the classes only to be awoken by the phone from the front desk to inform us that we were missing breakfast and if we wanted to eat that we should probably hurry on down ASAP. In effect, the thought of food pried us groaningly out of bed as we had obviously slept through and we shuffled down stairs in ponchos and beanies and patchwork hippy pants in the most bedraggled of ways. Finding the restaurant deserted, we took our plates and foraged through the serving bowls to find whatever scraps we could. Being the last ones to arrive, plates were filled with an arrangement of a strange potato concoction, the fatty bits of left over bacon and some crusts of bread. Due to the fact it was that time of the morning where this particular section of town was being subjected to its portion of the rolling electricity blackouts that happen throughout Nepal on a daily basis, we were plunged into darkness and so with no option of toasting the said staling bread, it was thusly smother in sweet, sweet jam and made as edible as possible.
With a portion of nutrients theoretically consumed it was off to the sister city of Patan. As we walked down the ever crowding tourist strip, we looked over the map and by making wild estimates at the scale, concluded that we were approximately twenty kilometres away from our desired destination. On empty stomachs and already tired legs, this just would not do and without any protest, we elected to acquire another rickshaw for the journey. As we made enquiries with the first driver we came across, we found that he was more than happy to pedal us all the way to Patan for the measly sum of one hundred rupees. Or one dollar in the old language. Bless. For such a journey to cost so little, it became glaringly apparent that we had been over-paying everyone else. Or alternatively, these kind and gentle people were being exploited and massively under-paid across the board. Being as jovial and talkative as one can be whilst furiously pedalling through the stampede of traffic towards Patan, our new friend decided to take us on a detour through the temple square district so that he could conduct his traditional and customary morning routine. Our first stop along the way was at a small local stupa in which he announced he wished to stop for his morning prayers and blessings. Intrigued by this, we did not refuse this suggestion and so we all hopped off the rickshaw, circled the stupa in a bizarre multicultural group, spun the prayer wheels, rung some ancient bells and then rubbed the smiling Buddha’s belly. After lighting some incense and receiving the tika red dot blessing from an ancient old man clad in traditional garb, onwards we travelled, crossing onto the wrong side of the road and weaving in and out of traffic with expert precision as we exited the side streets and made our way onto the main road.
Suddenly sensing the presence of another, I turned around to find the small, beaming face of a small child nestled in between Sarah and myself. This little ragamuffin had at some point hopped onto the back of our rickshaw to hitch a ride and he smiled and posed for photographs until our driver turned and noticed him as well. With a few stern words he hopped off and pretended to walk away but once we were moving again, the cheeky bugger snuck back on and regained his previous triumphant position. Finding this hilarious, we gifted our cheeky companion with a key ring for his entertainment value and with a toothy smile, he hopped off again, waved and melted away into the crowd. And so onwards we went and after cheating death numerous times on the roads, we finally arrived in the old medieval city of Patan. We disembarked in the centre of the temple district, where large stone and wooden stupas loomed and ornate temples surrounded the palaces of old. We paid our man and he told us that he would wait around for the day to take us back to the central district when we were done. Clearly, we were worth the sacrifice. And it must be said that we were also secretly pleased that our hard-working friend could kick back and put his feet up for the day, content in the knowledge that he would have some coins in his pocket and would not have to worry about where his meal was to come from today.
After completing a circle of the labyrinth of main temples, we decided that it would be best to explore this part of the city in a grid formation. This proved to be ill-advised as before too long, we found ourselves rather lost and wandering aimlessly around a much more rural setting than had been expected. Crumbling buildings scattered themselves around the vegetable fields once more and we continued to walk dusty trails with the faint knowledge of theoretical directions from where we had started out, but not before inadvertently walking into a school yard and people's homes. Eventually turning what could only be imagined as left a number of times, the buildings slowly became more structurally sound and we soon found ourselves making our way to the other side of the central strip, where we consciously edged our way back towards the temple district, only stopping to indulge on local soups on the roof top of one of the neighbouring buildings. Finding ourselves re-nourished once more and ready to continue our adventure in the old town, we made our way into the markets, where we haggled down prices for novelty trinkets and ornate padlocks before finding an old palace converted into a museum. We paid the small fee and walked through the gardens and to our disappointment, only found the odd centuries old sculpture in an otherwise bare and desolate grounds. Growing weary, we decided to elope out of the district and track down our rickshaw driver who, true to his word, had waited the four or five hours for our return.
As we were eager to be on our way, we jumped back onto our trusty rickshaw and made the perilous down hill journey back into the main city, skirting death with the confidence that our tika blessing from earlier in the day might still hold sway against fate . . . or at least long enough so that we could continue to criss-cross against the flow of traffic unmolested. Arriving back at our hotel without even a scratch or a dent, we graciously thanked our driver with an extra handful of dollars and a mandatory koala key ring, of which he seemed both delighted and confused by. So much so that he refused to take our gift. We would have none of it and the she-beast clasped the key ring to his rickshaw and shook his hands. He smiled the most broadest of smiles, almost overwhelmed by our perceived generosity and our black hearts warmed with great fondness as we shook his hand and bid this sweet, hard-working, ever-beaming man farewell.
Chapter Eleven: The Trans-dimensional Vertical Highway
We had decided that tonight should be an early night so that we could regain our dwindling strength. We were, after all, going to be hurtling down the mountains in a bus the following morning towards the Chitwan Valley – an eight hour drive away to the south west. Whilst once again stuffing our belongings back into their bags we heard from Sonam and Samesh, our friends from the Isis Bar and they informed us that I had left behind a camera case when we had last been at the restaurant, that fateful drunk night of the Purple Haze debacle. Both the she-beast and I found this tip-off quite amusing as it was easily the most sober part of the evening, but in retrospect of how that ghastly night ended, we were not surprised to hear that our belongings were still emerging out of the woodwork from across Thamel. It did not explicitly require too much convincing before we were once more venturing back down the winding streets with a plan to consume some farewell cocktails and deep fried cheese sticks in a pretext of re-acquainting ourselves with more lost property. We spent the night conversing in butchered Nepalese to our gracious hosts and in between the learning of helpful catch phrase we remembered that in our bag we still had quite a handful of koala keyrings left over from the days outing and enquired if their younger siblings would care for more. It was here at our surprise that the staff had organized gifts of their own and presented us with sets of prayer beads and necklaces of the Buddha. We were humbled and taken aback from this unexpected show of affections and as we prepared ourselves to leave we proceeded to hug and embrace each other in a unity of cultures through the spiritual awakening via inebriation. Shuffling back to the
hotel at 1 AM in an highly intoxicated state we stuffed the last of our belongings back in their bags and fell into a prolonged nap before having to awake blurry eyed and bushy tailed at 5:30 AM to begin the new days adventure.
Journeys Beyond the Front Door Page 8
