“No, no, we don’t want all this. We want some special lassi. Do you have that?" River persevered despite the odds.
“Yes sir, I have everything. Just come with me to my house!"
“Really? Let’s go!"
I had to intervene at this point and convince River to find a hotel first.
“Sir, if you buy hashish from me, I will take you to a very good hotel and get you a discount."
Now this was an offer we couldn’t refuse. And he did take us to a very nice hotel in addition to providing us with top-quality hash.
“Okay, I might just have to change my opinion of Nepal." River conceded while we got high.
What followed this was sleep, hours and hours of uninterrupted glorious sleep, cushioned by the intriguing street noises of Thamel. I wasn’t planning on waking up anytime before noon the following day, but hunger and curiosity eventually compelled me to take a shower and peek outside the window later at night. The transformation was unbelievable. There was no sign of rain, all the puddles had mysteriously disappeared, big neon signs had lit up the narrow alleys and the music, oh the music! I immediately changed into the only dry pair of clothes in my bag and emptied the rest on the floor.
“We need to get out – now!”
The days spent in Thamel were the only time I regretted not bringing any decent clothes with me as it was more Soho-esque than a third-world dump. Our first stop on the long road to hedonism was a posh pizzeria called the Roadhouse Café. It was filled with elegant mahogany interiors, corn cobs on the ceiling, red chillies and chains of garlic on the walls, and the maddening scent of fresh wood burnt pizzas served with copious amounts of brandy, clove cigarettes and exotic coffee brewing in the corner. It was arguably the most perfect antidote to the bus ride.
I ordered two tall mojitos and a tiramisu to set the ball rolling for the rest of the night. Next up, an Irish pub. A night out that does not involve a detour to the nearest Irish pub isn’t a night out at all. To my delight, the one in Thamel also had a great live band playing. Mountains, peace, monasteries and momos – I forgot all about them and had three more mojitos, a long island and some beer. Third stop, a cozy garden restaurant with an old Nepali man strumming his acoustic guitar under a tree and crooning classic Bob Dylan songs. As he finished the last verse of Masters of War, he stroked his grey beard thoughtfully and asked, “what do you think Bob was talking about in this song? Big American politicians, I guess. But we don’t know about any of that in Kathmandu. Kathmandu in the 70s was a rocking place. Oh, we had some good times in those years. Oh yes…”
I was determined to spend the entire night on the street, but River had suddenly become the voice of reason. He dragged me back through the seedier parts of Thamel filled with ‘teenage dance bars’ claiming to provide everyone with a ‘private shower’. Was this some clever euphemism for a lap dance or a blowjob? I was curious to find out, but couldn’t work up the courage to get through the collapsible channel gates.
* * *
Thamel is quite the maze of tiny toy streets, all of which lead to the same mother lode of bars and cafés. We had already seen this part of the neighbourhood at night, but by sunrise, it had undergone another facelift. There was still plenty of music, but it wasn’t live anymore. Trippy psychedelic trance resounded through the streets from curio shops and record stores selling pirated CDs. Tibetan mandalas and colourful embroidered tapestries embedded with thousands of tiny glittering mirrors were displayed everywhere. At every steps there were piles of bronze and copper knick-knacks, silver jewellery, beads and wooden tribal masks with elongated faces and droopy eyes. Buddhas in every shape, size, ethnicity and colour were being sold next to idols of Lord Shiva, who wore a necklace of snakes and a serene smile on his face. It all looked so magical, like the unspoiled, never-ending treasure of Ali Baba’s cave.
Instead of shopping, I was happy to spend the day just ogling at all the stuff and ambling through the streets. Around four, gangs of young men with long unruly hair and cigarettes pursed between their lips emerged from their lairs and gathered outside the popular bars. Not up for drinking just yet, we chose to rest our feet at a rooftop coffee shop.
The whole of Thamel and its chaotic workings could be observed from up here under the bright glare of the sun. Thick tangles of black wires were heaped on every electric pole. They looked terrifying from above, but were hardly noticeable from the streets. It felt as though we were hovering over a sea of humanity in a hot air balloon, with the garbled sounds of different voices, languages and accents floating up towards us in this empty, quiet café.
The slightly bitter taste of caramel syrup floating on top of a cloud of helium light foam lingered on my tongue, as we moved to the New Orleans café down the street. Here, once again, we were sucked into a different dimension of space. It was remarkable how some of these restaurants had managed to create a bubble that allowed us to be a part of the cityscape, yet made us feel like the noisy television in the background has just been switched off. New Orleans café was another one of these warps in the continuum, where time went by oh-so-slowly. This peaceful little cranny, full of potted plants and vines that crept along the wooden pillars surrounding the patio, reeked of Billy Holiday, Louis Armstrong and lazy blues soaked in barrels of bourbon. I'm gonna love you, like no one’s ever loved you, come rain or come shine. Happy together, unhappy together, now won’t that be fine…
Such an evocative ambience undoubtedly called for some jambalaya and a double Jack Daniels. Predictable? Well, yes. Enjoyable? Oh, thoroughly! I’ve never been to the real New Orleans and I doubt that it would resemble this place in anyway, but it was a pretty good manifestation of the New Orleans in my head.
As the evening progressed, the same bonhomie as the previous night took over the streets. I spent another small fortune on alcohol and rock music. The exchange rate in Nepal had given me a false sense of security and a license to splurge. A quick tally of my expenses so far in Kathmandu clearly showed that I had already shelled out a whole week’s budget. I put down this hysterical little note in my diary, in bold, stating ‘no more drinking! ’ Unfortunately, the mojitos were bloody hard to resist, they’re the devil’s own drink, I tell you. And my resolve crumbled every night like a house made of noodles.
Strangely, in spite of acting like an incurable boozehound, I never woke up hung over. We had abandoned our routine of getting up at five and slept in till a decent nine or ten, so perhaps that helped. We would’ve slept on for longer if the discordant notes from a busted flute had not echoed through our entire hotel every morning. The first day I thought that maybe some dickhead on the street was trying to annoy us, but after a repeat performance the next day, I decided to investigate. The culprit turned out to be the owner of our hotel, who was seated right in the centre of the lobby with a flute glued to his lips. He stopped playing when he saw me staring at him in disbelief.
“Oh, hello! How do you like my wakeup call? It’s good, no?”
This delusional fellow was under the impression that his guests liked being woken up by the torturous notes emanating from his strange instrument. I didn’t have the heart to tell him otherwise and he immediately began a recital of traditional Nepalese songs just for me. Of course, I had to sit through the whole session, smile and even clap at the end.
Stairway to Heaven
On our third day in the city, or was it the fourth? Or fifth? Or eighth? My memories of Kathmandu refuse to follow any order. Our days were divided into three lists – breakfast, dinner and everything in between – but how we got from one to the other remains debatable. Let’s just assume for now that it was indeed the third day when we finally forced ourselves to crawl out of Thamel. I use the word ‘force’, because the whole process of looking at a map, locating the famous landmarks, figuring out how to get there, etc. felt more like a military drill than a leisurely holiday activity.
It’s an annoying paradox, but my love of travelling is frequently at odds with my hatred of sights
eeing. River always says that he needs to walk around a city to truly get a sense of it and I am of the same opinion. In fact, I also need to get lost, talk to a few strangers and drink copious amounts of coffee to put it all in my head coherently. But in Kathmandu, there are a lot of historical landmarks, which we felt obligated to see at least once. So I compromised for a day. Pashupatinath was rejected outright because only Hindus are allowed inside the temple. Boudhanath seemed interesting enough, but it was slightly far off. Thus, our undisputed winner was Swayambhunath.
At noon, we hailed a taxi and drove through the crowded streets of Kathmandu that did not consist of bars and cafés, but of schools, hospitals and other such mundane institutions. It was good to see these neighbourhoods, because I had forgotten that the city also consisted of people who were not tourists. The taxi dropped us off at the foot of a hill that rose abruptly from the flat plain. The only way to get to the top was the staggering flight of stairs that appeared to lead straight to the stars. Perhaps that’s what Swayambhunath meant – a stairway to heaven.
I investigated the connection, but sadly, I was wrong. The name of the hill actually comes from Swayambhu Purana, an ancient text describing how the Kathmandu valley was formed. It’s interesting to note that this book, which was written 1,000 years ago, says that the Kathmandu valley originated from an enormous lake – a fact that was recently corroborated by geologists. The book goes on to explain how lord Manjusri came down to earth and carved a gorge into the mountains to drain the water, so that the people could live here happily ever after. I’m guessing this is the point where Swayambhu Purana lost its scientific credibility.
River had found something to climb, so his day was already fulfilled. I, on the other hand, had to summon all my strength to begin the ascent. The sun was soon at its zenith and it made me envy all the monkeys lazing under the trees on that hill. They stared at me indolently and scratched their backs as I went past, except this one superior being who was elegantly peeling a banana. However, the moment he finished peeling it, he gobbled up the fruit like a common uncouth primate. Learning how to peel perfectly was probably the high point in the monkeys’ evolutionary graph. Once they got there, they thought, fuck it, we don’t need to go any further. Apart from the monkeys, there were also several monks with prayer beads in their hands, meditating serenely next to the several carved stupas scattered along the hillside.
When the steps finally gave way to the plateau on top, we stood at the edge to take a good, long look at this mini settlement. The focal point of the plateau was undoubtedly the famous White Stupa, which boasted of a golden spire on top. It was prefaced by an equally impressive vajra, called dorje in Tibetan, which beamed like a second sun. The whole area was saturated with light; every little object seemed to have a halo over its head. On both sides of the stupa, rows of curio shops were selling the exact same trinkets and statuettes as those in Thamel. More than the variety, I was impressed by the sheer volume of these souvenirs that had been arranged meticulously on long low tables outside every shop. From a sombre shrine, Swayambhunath had been transformed into a shopper’s paradise.
While we circled the stupa and whirled the prayer wheels, pilgrims chanted Om Mani Padme Hum, and lit entire packs of incense. The timeworn bronze lamps had almost turned black with grease. There was a small room, or rather a museum, behind the stupa, with a few ancient scrolls and extremely valuable Buddha statues locked inside glass cages. I spent some time in there before moving on to the monastery to my right.
This prayer hall had the most striking Buddha that we’d seen so far on the trip. Each little indentation in the crown had a life of its own and the statue’s eyes were truly the embodiment of wisdom and compassion.
It’s worth getting up to Swayambhunath for one reason or another. Even though the religiosity of the place is not particularly inspiring, the view is breathtaking. The city fans out underneath the hill, reaching far and wide into the horizon. From a certain perspective, it indeed looks as though Kathmandu was arranged at the bottom of a lake by a giant mythical god or on the palm of someone’s hand with the mountains at the fringe curling up like fingers.
Inspired by the view, I sat down in a shady corner to draw the scene in my little notebook, while River wandered around the shops. I traced the outline of the big bells, mounted on top of the spires, that chimed softly, nudged by sporadic bursts of wind. Then came the prayer flags tied pole-to-pole with the huge white dome in the middle. When I lifted my head up a few minutes later, I found a three-year-old boy standing next to me. His thick t-shirt was covered in grime just like the rest of him, but it clearly said ‘giraffes are yery tall’ (instead of ‘very’). And a small giraffe’s head was left hanging from the chest pocket to prove the point. I laughed at that and the kid laughed at me. Then he began clapping each time I managed to draw a straight line. A circle called for a somersault and a triangle, a hearty giggle. Other people were beginning to gather around us, assuming that we were a part of a travelling circus troupe.
Despite the strange antics, I didn’t shoo him away, because he was exactly the kind of child I like: curious, a bit mental and deliriously happy about god knows what. When he expressed his desire to join in on the real fun by grabbing my pen, I understood that this was no ordinary tyke. His unwashed appearance was entirely justified, because he was an explorer. He probably spent his days digging up worms and then putting them inside the monks’ robes. I would’ve happily let him scribble on my page, but River was back and it was time for us to leave.
“Okay mister, it was nice meeting you.”
He sensed that we were saying goodbye and hung his head in disappointment. But the moment I turned, he tugged at my sleeve and offered a manly handshake. The grime from his impish fingers was transferred to my palm and I smiled at it fondly in remembrance of an afternoon well spent.
* * *
River had his trusty plastic compass with him, so on the way back, we ditched the taxi and took off on foot. The Kathmandu of schools and hospitals that I had only glimpsed at earlier was now all around us. Narrow crooked streets, old men and women hobbling along with the noisy traffic, beggars sleeping right in the middle of the roundabout, least bothered about their extended arms, garbage dumps next to tea stalls and vegetable sellers shouting at the top of their lungs. The sight was like any over-populated Indian city and I wasn’t enjoying the walk very much.
But then, just as we turned a corner, this special space opened up in front of us, as if by magic. It was full of exquisite carved wooden pagodas and the smell of cumin seeds frying in hot woks. It was still just as raucous and congested and the people looked the same, but as it happens on stage, the backdrop had been transformed. The traffic encircled the temples where the evening pujas were underway. Mangoes, lychees and all other kinds of spices were being sold at tiny wood-latticed shops. In this lane, just about every perfume and aroma known to mankind was present: mace, cloves, cinnamon, rosewater, sandalwood, vetiver, dried garlic, pickled chillies, roasted sesame oil, tobacco and a hint of opium. It was a farrago no doubt, but also the closest I’ve ever felt to being somewhere exotic.
Every building in our vicinity was at least 100 years old, so I was a little horrified to see men pissing on doorways that would be considered antique in America. The Nepalis have a really confusing attitude towards their historical buildings. There are no fences or signs anywhere saying ‘do not touch’, vehicles are allowed to pass within a few metres of ancient stupas, people have picnics in temple courtyards and modern multi-storeyed housing blocks are being constructed right next to old houses, marring the beauty of their four-tiered pagodas. The newfound democracy definitely needs a plan for Kathmandu and soon.
Butt Vat Abut Rheggae?
When people ask me what I loved the most about Kathmandu, I always lie. Sometimes I rave about the architecture, sometimes the culture, the music or the food, but the truth is that the loony crackpots of this city are by far its best tourist attraction. The city council
should consider advertising it on billboards. For instance, take this man in Thamel, whom we kept running into no matter which lane we took. And every time he saw us, he insisted on serenading us with a rap song he had composed himself about the benefits of using Tiger Balm. It took us a few encounters to realise that he was actually selling Tiger Balms and not just randomly singing about them.
Or take this cheeky little boy, who came up to us as we were strolling down Freak Street, which used to be a hotbed of hippie debauchery in the 70s but sadly, not anymore. He had some cardboard wrapped around his arm and was moaning, “ahh, my hand is so weak, I have to wear this for support. Please give me some money for food!” I didn’t know what else to do except stare in disbelief at his cardboard brace and wonder where the hell did he come up with such a dopey idea? Maybe this was some kind of sobriety test these street kids tried to pull on every tourist just to see who was wasted or stupid enough to fall for it. When the boy figured out that he wasn’t getting any money from us, he coolly discarded the cardboard and gave us a nasty stare.
“You shouldn’t lie like this, boy. It’s not good,” I attempted to correct his ways, to which he replied, “aapse bheek mangi hai, rai nahin!” I asked for money, not your advice.
On another night, a cab driver started following us, calling out suggestively and whistling, “come darling, I waiting for you so long!” It would’ve been offensive if he was referring to me, but amusingly, he was talking to River. He didn’t leave us alone till River had smiled and waved at him. Later on that same night, I got a bit too drunk and instead of quietly passing out at the back of a rickshaw, I decided to drive it back to our hotel. The rickshaw driver was more than willing to watch me kill myself, but thankfully, I lasted only half a minute before ramming the front wheel into a wall.
Special Lassi Page 13
