Kathmandu

Our flight from Dubai entered Nepalese airspace in the late afternoon of 22 November as the sun began its majestic evening ritual of setting over the Himalaya. Though the Kathmandu valley was insulated in a thick covering of feathery cloud, the dying embers of the autumn afternoon still pulsated on the molten skyline of the mountains.  Off the port wing I caught a brief but satisfying glimpse of Mt Everest, her summit pyramid glowing with all the sanctity and refinement of a celestial altar.  My heart skipped a beat.

On my last visit to Nepal, I was hesitant to immerse myself too much in its capital city, seeing it as a place to be tolerated rather than celebrated; a stepping-stone to adventure rather than the adventure itself.  This time though it was different - even despite the pace and manic intensity of a city which, if you were not prepared for it, could sweep you away in a bewildering torrent of traffic, dust, filth, smell and of course, teeming humanity.  It is, I suppose, the same with any third world city.

As our taxi crossed the bridge over the Bagamati River we encountered a particularly unpleasant aspect of Kathmandu.  Here, demarcating the gentle arc of a stream so sacred to Hindus, funeral pyres blazed at the foot of the great Pashupatinath temple complex, which along with its counterpart in Varanasi India is one of the holiest sites in the Hindu religion.  Indeed, devotees consider cremation here to be the ultimate send-off.    The following afternoon we visited the temple (now one of three UNESCO World Heritage sites in Kathmandu) and though access to the sanctuary was restricted to all but Hindu pilgrims, we were allowed to observe the spectacle and take pictures from a vantage point across the river.  A number of cremation ceremonies were underway and dark billows of smoke rose from the platforms and hung lugubriously overhead. 

While I found the ancient architecture and antique stonework of Pashupatinath somewhat captivating, the squalor – inexplicably abject for a place considered so holy - detracted significantly from the visit.  The river itself was black with pollution, its banks braided with litter.  I was also dismayed by the opportunism of the locals who plied their respective trades there.  The complex, for example, is well known for its “sadhus” (Hindu holy men) who are an attraction in their own right.  Besides being outrageously cadaverous, sadhus are known for their unruly facial hair, garish body paint and meagre loin coverings that perform an alarmingly tenuous containment of the private parts.   It struck me however that not all sadhus were especially “holy” and I soon learnt to distinguish between an authentic sadhu and a “business sadhu” - the latter being little more than a fancy dress begging specialist who makes money by charging tourists who want to take photos of him.  There’s no doubt that some of these guys are entitled to their keep:  I’d read, for example, of a sadhu who can sling a 50kg boulder over is penis and lift it off the ground.  Sadly though I could not locate him on the day of our visit – perhaps he was at home on sick leave or something.  The temple complex is also known for a particularly menacing troop of red-faced monkeys that stalk you at a distance, waiting for you to drop your guard so they can snatch food from your bag or pocket.  They are considered sacred by the Hindus so not much is done to restrain them.  A few days after we left, one of Madan’s clients was bitten on the leg by one of these loathsome primates and had to undergo a course of injections for Rabies.  All things considered, amongst the sites I visited in Kathmandu, I enjoyed Pashupatinath the least. 

Yes, that's a body down there

Stepping into the river of city life on Sunday morning, I mused over the irony that a mere 36 hours previously I’d been window shopping in the frenetic emporia of Dubai International’s duty free where a bottle of French perfume or rare single malt scotch can dent even the heftiest of holiday budgets.  Nepal on the other hand, (and at the risk of stating the obvious) is disturbingly impoverished, a condition that is amplified by the cramped, chaotic confines of its capital. 

To escape this confinement, we drove out to the ancient city of Bhaktapur in the eastern corner of the Kathmandu valley.  At its apogee in the 15^th Century, the place was a city-state that lay on the principal caravan route between India and Tibet.  As such it boasts an meticulously preserved complex of palaces, pagodas, ponds and temples – not to mention an imposing array of beautifully preserved statues and carvings.  What makes Bhaktapur special is that people still live there so the experience is a lot like walking inside an exquisitely conceived museum diorama.

The intricacies of Bhaktapur’s architecture and woodwork are mirrored in the sacred art of Thanka – an excruciatingly detailed blend of brushwork and gold overlay that expresses the core principles of Buddhism.  We visited a Thanka school to see masters and students hard at work on creations both large and small.  Since it is not uncommon for a single artist to labour on a painting between 8 to 12 hours a day for a whole year, a Thanka painting from a renowned practitioner can command a king’s ransom.

The Tibetan Bhuddist influence on Nepalese culture is not only limited to Bhaktapur.  We had lunch at the great Boudhanath Stupa, built during the 16^th century  (though re-modeled and renovated many times since) and one of the largest of its kind in the world.  The stupa is located in a serene city square that is accessible only to pedestrian traffic and which is surrounded by brightly painted shops, apartments, hotels and rooftop restaurants.  It is well frequented by locals, tourists and massive flocks of pigeons that, every hour on the hour, are startled into flight so that visitors can get an unusual photo of the dome.  Our time there was a welcome relief from the chaos of the city.

Boudhanath Stupa

Above and Below - Street Life in Kathmandu

Sightseeing only went part of the way towards unveiling the magic that was Kathmandu.  In the 1960s, western hippies poured into the city in pursuit of cheap drugs, Buddhist teachers and Hindu gurus.  They brought the gift of rock and roll and, with artists like Cat Stevens among them; a rich culture of live music was soon flourishing.  On my final night in Kathmandu, I went on a musical pub-crawl with an Irishman I’d met on the trek and encountered bands singing pitch perfect renditions of songs from bands like Pearl Jam, Collective Soul, the Beatles and more.  Mercifully beer was so expensive that the temptation to make it a late night was an easy one to resist.  Just after midnight, I said goodbye to Patrick and set off on foot to my hotel.   During the day it was hard enough to navigate around the maize that is Thamel though I eventually learned to make landmarks of the diverse merchandise that by day was arranged on the street pavements.  But now that all the shops were closed, it took me a while to get my bearings and my midnight stroll through the darkened backstreets became a memorable if not unnerving game of hit and miss.  After losing my way a few times, I eventually recognized a small Hindu shrine, stubs of candles and incense still burning, and with relief realised I was only a block away from my hotel.

Chillin' with some of Kathmandu's ridiculously talented Musos

In a city that receives and entertains such a diversity of international travellers and pilgrims – many of whom are by nature avid readers - it was no surprise to learn that Kathmandu is famous for its used bookstores.  I spent hours in these dusty cubbyholes, books piled to the roof and overwhelmed not just by the vast array of mountaineering titles (a cottage industry in itself) but by the diversity of other titles too.  After browsing for a while I selected some books, haggled over the price with the merchant (but got nowhere) and then retreated to a quiet garden restaurant called “The Lazy Buddha” where I whiled away the afternoon reading and drinking fruit lassies, (an excellent Nepalese beverage made from milk curd).  Here I met two Australian bankers and their young sons about to embark on Everest trek as a “coming of age” experience for the two lads.  I discovered they had just arrived on the Qantas midday flight and were staying in the same hotel as I was.  They had dozens of questions and were brimming with excitement though when I saw them the next day at breakfast the excitement had waned somewhat.  Both lads were down with food poisoning from a meal the night before and one wanted to go home to his mum.  I thought about them often over the next week or so, particularly as the bad weather brought deep snow to the Solu Khumbu region. 

Dhal Bhat - a typical Nepalese meal

Having a shave after the Trek

When the time came to leave on Sunday evening I felt a strange blend of sadness and relief.  Since our arrival from the Everest region 3 days earlier, my time in Kathmandu had been quite a lonely one.  Perhaps there was an element of anticlimax after the trek – perhaps it was because I didn’t really have anyone else to share it all with.  Whatever it was, as I write about it now, I think of the lyrics to a famous Cat Stevens song:

Katmandu, I'll soon be seein' you

And your strange bewilderin' time
Will hold me down