The Waiting Land

by Dervla Murphy

  A small bathroom (with a cold shower but without a bath) and an even smaller kitchen lead off this living-room, while at the back a narrow wooden staircase, to Sigrid’s bedroom, is concealed by a cupboard-like device. Outside, in the large, haphazard garden, twin giant poplars stand handsomely in one corner, and at the moment I can see Donbahadur in another corner, baking delicious bread in that mud-stove which is his contribution to the establishment’s excellent system of improvisation. Beyond the ten-foot wall enclosing the garden runs a very wavy, very pot-holed and very dusty track, which unfortunately happens to be one of the valley’s main roads, linking Kathmandu, Jawalkhel and Patan. At this season the frequent passage of buses envelops the garden in a veil of yellow, suffocating dust; only the tops of these vehicles are visible as they lurch slowly by, so one has the curious illusion of watching ships on a stormy sea.

  Tonight, with Sigrid’s blessing, Puchare and I will curl up together on a Tibetan carpet; I don’t often encounter the perfect hostess who refrains from registering horror at the prospect of a guest sleeping on the floor.

  5 MAY

  What a lovable little city this is! Each day I enjoy it more, though before coming here I had thought of the place as no more than a stepping-stone to Pokhara. But my vision of the Kathmandu Valley as being only slightly less dire than India was quite false. Of course there are the obvious resemblances – dust, stench, flies, ubiquitous sacred cows and mangy dogs in gutters. Also many of the women now wear either the sari or the shalwar and chemise, though the majority of men have retained their distinctive dress of jodhpur-type loose-seated trousers, high-necked tunics flaring out above the knees and jaunty little caps – a reversal of the common pattern in the East, where men are usually the first to abandon the national costume. However, the obvious differences between the two countries are far more important. The ordinary Nepalese seem to be without a trace of the Indians’ servility, or their touchiness, or that excruciating national inferiority complex which masquerades so pathetically as a superiority complex. In the past the Nepalese suffered more injustice and cruelty under their own corrupt and unscrupulous rulers than the Indians ever did under the British; but at least they were spared that lethal blow to a country’s pride which can be given only by foreign conquerors. All the other Westerners to whom I have spoken during the past few days agree with me that on most levels the Nepalese are far easier to get along with than the Indians – which alone would make the atmosphere of Kathmandu much pleasanter than that of New Delhi.

  Another of my misconceptions concerned the influence of tourism on the valley. I had pictured it as having been already spoiled by and for tourists, but despite the fact that ‘everyone’ now comes here, in much the same way as ‘everyone’ leaves London during the summer, it would be ridiculous, at present, to describe Kathmandu as a Tourist Centre. However, in its outward aspect it is already far less ‘exotic and romantic’ than one has been led to believe; there are almost as many petrol-pumps as temples, and ugly new buildings are going up everywhere. No one could call it a lovely city, yet there is an abundance of beauty to be found here, and the friendly gaiety and inconsequential craziness of the atmosphere have completely captivated me. This craziness is repeatedly manifested in various Gilbertian ways. When I moved from the hotel to the labyrinthine Youth Hostel at Jawalkhel – one of the many tasteless ex-Rana palaces that litter the valley – I found a multitude of h. and c. taps and some very imposing Western flushes above Eastern latrines; but the nearest water was in the nearest well. Also there is an intriguing urban telephone system, installed by the Americans a few years ago in the fond hope that local activities might thus be speeded up, and to date this innovation has made several quite important contributions to the national muddle. On some days it works only in some areas and on other days it works only in other areas, so the consequent alarms and excursions create far more tension than would ever have to be endured if life were philosophically geared to an absence of telephonic communication. Then there are the foibles of the electricity system. These include switches that have been humorously hidden in the most unlikely corners – at floor or ceiling level, or behind window shutters – and that function, if at all, only after prolonged and highly dangerous manipulation. Because of the current’s ‘erraticism’ everyone keeps a supply of candles at the ready, and this evening, at a meeting of Father Moran’s Tibetan Refugee Committee in The Royal Hotel, I noted with joy that amidst so much ornate splendour our conference was being illuminated by two candles stuck on saucers.

  Since Nepal was opened to foreigners in 1951 The Royal Hotel has been the centre of what passes for social life in Kathmandu. Officially it is a ‘luxury hotel’ and as such not at all my line of country; but one soon discovers that here even ‘luxury hotels’ are purged of their uniformity, and in fact The Royal is as outrageously individual as all other local phenomena. Partly this is due to a ludicrous magnificence, both in the building itself (another ex-Rana palace) and in the Grand Opera décor, which is so gorgeously ‘un-with-it’ that one is immediately charmed into forgiving its excesses. But mainly the uniqueness of The Royal is due to the personality of Boris, that legendary Russian whom I had already met with delight in so many books and whom I met today, with even greater delight, in person. Undoubtedly Boris belongs to that corps of larger-than-life cosmopolitan eccentrics who have been born to redeem this conforming age, yet to me the most impressive thing about him is his simple kindness. He seems essentially a benevolent rural inn-keeper, rather than the owner-manager of an international hotel, and on his account I fear the more ruthless and practical hoteliers who are now beginning to invade Kathmandu.

  At The Royal I was also introduced to Peter Aufschneider and Sir Edmund Hillary. Sir Edmund looks and behaves exactly as one would expect a conqueror of Everest to look and behave, and on shaking hands with him I got a positively schoolgirlish thrill – though it is to be hoped that this was not apparent, since the unfortunate man must be bored almost to extinction by thrilled females. Peter Aufschneider (Heinrich Harrer’s companion in Tibet) lives permanently in Kathmandu and now works for the Nepalese Government. He is very shy, modest and likeable – but unfortunately I’m invariably struck dumb on first meeting people who have long been admired from afar, so as a conversational unit we never really got off the ground.

  Inevitably The Royal forms a hollow into which all Kathmandu gossip finally trickles and, as much of this gossip concerns the sex-life of various Nepalese royal personages, or of prominent foreign residents, the resulting pond is depressingly murky. But more interesting subjects are occasionally discussed, and here I heard that it is now very difficult to obtain a trekking permit for Northern Nepal. Apparently a certain writer recently took unfair advantage of having been granted such a permit, went to or beyond the Tibetan frontier, took a film of various odd happenings there, wrote about his exploits in European newspapers and generally so upset the Nepalese that they are now thwarting innocent travellers who wish to explore Nepal from no motive other than wanderlust. Personally I know only too well how forbidden frontiers tempt one’s juvenile devilry and I have once been guilty of succumbing to their lure; yet out of common politeness to the Governments concerned and for the sake of other travellers one should surely refrain from writing up such incidents – especially in a justifiably jittery country like Nepal. No doubt these regrettable activities near the Tibetan frontier are also partly responsible for the Nepalese Government’s ban on further Himalayan expeditions.

  Another news item concerned the voluntary return to Tibet, within recent months, of an unspecified number of refugees who had been squatting in Eastern Nepal for the last two years. My informant on this matter was as reliable – within the limitations of the subject – as anyone could be, so I was greatly interested to hear that the uncommitted traders who still travel between Lhasa and Namche Bazaar are bringing reassuring verbal messages from those who returned to their friends in Nepal. The messages say that these ex-refugees find them
selves a lot better off in present-day Tibet than they ever were in Nepal and that the Chinese, having secured a firm grip on the country, are now relaxing their first savage pressure. Possibly this news simply represents another victory for Chinese propaganda. The Communists badly need more labourers and I remember hearing, about eighteen months ago, of the Lhasa-printed leaflets then being circulated in India and Nepal, urging the refugees to return to Tibet and guaranteeing them a ‘pardon’ for their flight into exile. Yet it does seem psychologically probable that the Chinese regime is now evolving from its initial fiercely repressive stage, and I can’t help wondering if a return home might not be the happiest solution for many of the Tibetans in Nepal. Whether they are living under the Chinese or in exile it is going to be impossible for them to preserve their ancient religious and social traditions, and in Tibet they would at least enjoy a suitable climate and altitude. I suspect that many Westerners, being unprepared to concede that the Chinese are human beings, would be enraged by this suggestion; yet it does seem a pity to let ideological biases confuse humanitarian issues.

  Bicycles are among the main ingredients of Kathmandu traffic, and now I must confess that yesterday I was unfaithful to Roz. I had been advised to buy a bicycle for use in Pokhara (it would of course have to be flown there, as not even a mule-track connects the two valleys), but at first I wasn’t very enthusiastic about the idea, having only seen Indian models here and knowing from previous experience how difficult it is to come to terms with these parodies. Then yesterday morning, while wandering through the bazaar, I spotted a likely-looking second-hand Russian cycle, tried it, found it congenial and bought it for £10.16s.8d. (Leo, a brother for Roz). Leo is sky-blue and at least twice as heavy as Roz, but he is beautifully balanced and very comfortable on rough tracks, with his huge, well-sprung saddle and broad tyres. He has a bewildering multiplicity of accessories. None of my previous cycles sported a mirror, foot-brake, milometer, toolcase, carrier, front-wheel dynamo, automatic stand and built-in lock with two keys – in addition to the statutory bell and pump. At present the foot-brake is a menace as I am in the habit of casually back-pedalling when going downhill – but I’ll soon get adjusted; and this is only one of the many hazards of cycling in Kathmandu.

  The traffic here is predictably unpredictable; trucks suddenly begin to back on top of you without warning, buses simply pretend you aren’t there, taxis shave your elbow just for the hell of it, brakeless fellow-cyclists charge you at right angles and jogging porters, carrying pairs of laden baskets on yokes, enjoy abruptly changing course to send their loads swinging into your front wheel. All things considered it seems reasonable to deduce that the Nepalese are a people not yet ‘switched on’ to wheeled traffic; when I ring my bell before overtaking pedestrians, as likely as not they respond to the warning by joyously bounding across the road without looking left or right. Yet another hazard is the umbrella, which at this season is used as a sunshade. Your Nepalese pedestrian, strolling along with a friend, tends to gesture extravagantly with his umbrella just as one is pedalling past and so far these antics have twice unseated me – indeed, were I not wearing sunglasses I’d probably have lost an eye by now.

  Today I realised that for cycling very slowly through crowded bazaars a heavy cycle is undoubtedly best. Roz was not built to move at the pace of meandering cattle, and on her slim tyres one has to dismount repeatedly or fall off; but one can sit on Leo when he’s almost stationary, while waiting for the sacred cow and her sacred calf to deign to move out of the way – it’s the difference between taking a cart-horse and a thoroughbred through city streets. Naturally I wouldn’t exchange Roz for half-a-dozen Leos, but in his way he’s sound enough and will keep me happy in Pokhara.

  This evening I have a lump like a football on the top of my head; the height of the average Nepalese is five foot three, and local doorways are made accordingly.

  7 MAY

  There are many things one ‘should see’ in this valley, but I secretly resent being bossed by guidebooks and am therefore a slipshod tourist. To me the little statue that one unexpectedly discovers down an alleyway, and impulsively responds to, means much more than the temple one had been instructed to admire for erudite and probably incomprehensible reasons; so I just go wandering vaguely around on Leo, finding enough incidental entertainment in the three ancient capitals of Kathmandu, Patan and Bhatgaon.

  These ‘cities’ (by our standards market-towns) were for many centuries the seats of the rival Newari dynasties who ruled and fought over this valley before it was conquered by the Gurkhas in 1769. As a race the Newari had an exceptionally developed aesthetic sense and the ordinary people of the valley seem to have attained an almost freakishly high level of craftmanship, most notably displayed in the bronze or stone temple sculptures and in those intricate weatherworn wood-carvings which adorn so many of the older buildings. If any European city had produced in the past such a concentration of artistic achievement it would long since have been demolished, bombed or self-consciously preserved – and whatever its fate the spirit of its craftsmen would have been well and truly exorcised. But here all this beauty is taken for granted, and its survival has been entirely a matter of chance. Some corners of the cities, where nothing has visibly intruded from another age or civilisation, seem quite powerfully haunted by the force and fervour of those nameless men whose work still lives on every side; and in such corners Time can occasionally slip into reverse, so that one is no longer deliberately reaching back into the past with one’s imagination but actually experiencing it for a few brief, bewildering moments.

  By now these Newari arts and crafts have all declined and the majority of the valley’s original inhabitants are petty traders or minor clerks. Some people argue that this is a consequence of Gurkha domination, yet it seems probable that Newari inspiration was already flagging by the eighteenth century and that apathy must in any case have succeeded those rich centuries of enthusiasm.

  In many parts of the valley elegance and crudity clash violently – especially where the graceful Newari houses emphasise the ostentatiousness of the Rana palaces. These ugly edifices proliferated during the last century, when the avaricious ruling family were breeding like rabbits and building like beavers, and against any other background they would remain for ever intolerable; yet so strangely does Kathmandu affect one that a certain bizarre charm can be found even in such monstrous mistakes.

  Another aspect of Kathmandu’s crudity is referred to in A Winter in Nepal, where John Morris quotes Dr David Wright, who spent some years here as surgeon to the British Residency and wrote, in 1877, ‘From a sanitary point of view Kathmandu may be said to be built on a dunghill in the middle of latrines.’ Mr Morris himself found this description still accurate in 1960, and I feel that he was being charitable when he stated that ‘this is one of the filthiest cities in the world’. (My italics.) In some quarters reeking water lies stagnant in square stone public baths, and I doubted the evidence of my eyes when I first saw people drinking this brew. After the scum has been pushed aside and the liquid – one can hardly describe it as water – has been collected in earthenware or brass pitchers it looks like strong tea; what immunity (or what dysentery) these people must have! Yet despite all this squalor most of the children seem reasonably healthy, though many of their elders have been prematurely aged by a lifetime of carrying unbelievably heavy loads.

  There are surprisingly few beggars about, and today I was approached only once – by a small, Murillo-faced boy with whom I became on very good terms after I had made it clear that no baksheesh would be forthcoming. Indeed everywhere I went I was greeted with laughter and gestures of friendship, and for me the effervescent happiness of the Kathmandu Valley more than counterbalances its filth.

  Today I went to the ramshackle GPO to register some letters, since unregistered mail from Kathmandu rarely reaches its destination. At present a new post office is being built, as part of Indian Aid to Nepal, but I’m glad to have had the singular experienc
e of patronising the old one. The Nepalese have no conception of queuing so one is at once caught up in a loose maul of sturdy little bodies, each with an arm thrust out towards the clerk, in whose face envelopes, money and forms are waved vigorously while requirements are shouted as though by the rules of the game the loudest demands must win. I felt a bully when using my superior height to achieve the necessary victory; but clearly there was no future here in being ladylike.

  When the clerk had scrutinised my envelopes he politely asked if London was in Germany. I equally politely said ‘No, as a matter of fact it’s in England,’ and – still thirsting for geographical information – he next enquired if Ireland were one of the United States of America. Having sorted that one out with some difficulty, since neither islands nor oceans meant anything in his young life, I asked him how long he had been a post office employee. (By now the scrum had subsided, as everyone was absorbed in our unintelligible conversation.) He grinned at this question, admitted to having started work only this morning and explained – superfluously – that he had not yet invented a formula for controlling his customers.

  Before leaving the building I went into the courtyard to watch the mail being sorted. Here some dozen men were squatting on the ground surrounded by hillocks of envelopes, the majority to or from foreign countries. Between the hillocks the ‘plain’ was littered with stray envelopes, across which coolies and chickens and dogs and a buffalo-calf wandered casually; I deduced that these were the ill-fated epistles – addressed to obscure places like London – for which no suitable hillock could readily be found. And all the time I was looking wistfully for a few Irish envelopes with green and orange around the edges – but none appeared. Maybe the buffalo-calf had eaten them.