...knock it off

I am on a bus returning to Kathmandu, leaving sweet Pokhara behind. We left the Kathmandu Valley a week and a half ago, begrudging the seven-hour bus ride to Pokhara hardly at all. We were saying good bye to a sandy atmosphere filled with black, grimy exhaust that left lungs dusty and skin caked. We were leaving behind the noises of grating horns and barking strays as well, those increasingly unbearable characteristics of urban centers. At night the canine choir would light up and I would wonder how we could get them to knock it off by entertaining notions of government-funded neutering initiatives. Seven hours was a pleasant price to pay, and as it wound up and down the foothills of the Himalayas, I only enjoyed it more. But now we're saying hello. Again.

But Kathmandu has her collection of beautiful things, too.

In Thamel where we stay there are shops upon shops of handmade items and knock-off goods, made-to-look-like brands and religious tokens, souvenirs and cheesy t-shirts. And in each one there are beautiful people. Their skin is darker, their smiles brighter. Many have those comfortable wrinkles that speak stories of their own. Some toothy grins are, well, toothless, and their eyes are shining, though often so dark there is no distinction between iris and pupil. Conversation is relaxed, easy; tea is sweet and milky; laughter is not hard to find.

I went to a Nepali church service where we sat in rows on the ground, cross-legged and split: women on the right, men on the left. Up front there were six people singing, a guitarist, bassist and drummer. The room was a concrete rectangle with a tin roof and hanging ceiling fans. In front of me sat a young, passionate man who raised his right hand in worship with a four-letter word tattooed on his knuckles. I smiled and longed for the story behind it.

We also visited Pashupati, the most holy site for all Hindus. This is a temple to Shiva, the destroyer, and within the Hindu-only site for worship sits a giant golden calf--I mean bull--that people pay homage to. Nepali, Indian, Chinese all whisk past us on their way in and out. Some people hope to get to this temple just once in their lifetime, a relationship like Muslims have with Mecca. Hopefully your visit isn't also your funeral, but such is the case for many. Right next to the temple is the ceremonial cremation site along the river, and you can smell it in the air. Several stone platforms support the bonfires of departing lives going on to join the five elements: the body is burned by fire, the body becomes like earth, the smoke floats into the air, the ash is placed in the water and their spirit ascends to Sky. 

However strange it was for us to see burning bodies, and stranger to smell them, it was a fascinating sight. Groups of mourners stood at every stage in the process: some were saying good-bye to their shrouded loved-one as he lay by the lapping current, some, red and puffy-eyed, were watching the fire smolder after hours of flame, and some the ashes being swept into the river. A group even carried one body in on a small bed, tears held back by duty.


But we've left that behind for Lakeside, Pokhara, Nepal. Here dark-skinned boys strip down to their underwear and dive into the warm lake water. They come out gleaming in the sun, smooth, smiling. Some have found a little drop-off and are leaping the ten feet down, splashing below. It is quite hot after all, and even we take an opportunity to leap, fully-clothed, into the lake and swim out to an island where sits a famous hotel owned by the royal 

family. Many dignitaries and celebrities have stayed here and their names are carved on wooden plaques hung outside the room they stayed in. We just sit with an old friend for tea and conversation. The beauty of the shade, the grass, the trees and mostly, the view, gives a sense of youthfulness. It is a kind of paradise here in Pokhara. 

On the outskirts of town winds a river that cuts a deep gorge. It is lower than the lake and thus fed by it, among other sources. There is a family we are good friends with and we took a couple of the young guys to this river for an afternoon of playing in the water. We found a good rock from which to jump and I swam down to see how deep it was there, but quickly resurfaced before I could feel anything; it was too creepy. We leaped into the water, launched them from shoulders and raced back and forth. These boys are brothers, but not by blood; one was found and taken in by the other's mother years and years ago. A hawk circles about the nearby shallow rapids and we enjoy the natural beauty of this country and her people.

Lakeside draws in many tourists and so the main street is lined with trekking shops and restaurants, bookshops and short Tibetan women who make crafts in their refugee camp and bring them to sell. Their shop is their backpack. We have good friends here, our favorite spots for tea or Dal Bhat and a gregarious mentality. Quickly we begin relationships at the Asian Tea House or Shiva's, as we call it. We think there is some kind of divine gravity in this epitomal hole-in-the-wall, for we connect with Aussies, Malaysians, Nepali, Canadian, Chinese and a Czech/Dutch guy. One we met on the trekking road, the others we see day after day, and even one we just met again at a bus stop. Nepal is full of small-world connections, and many emanate from the milk tea conversing at Shiva's. 

Raaz, the young man who sold me gear

Because I left Kathmandu and my luggage never left America, I had to purchase a couple of items. In anticipation of the rain, I needed something as waterproof as possible. So I did a bit of shopping. Nepal is a land of inflated prices. With so many tourists passing though her villages and cities, the locals have learned to price everything high. Bartering is expected and they will still come out with something of a profit. Though I am not a great barterer, I managed to knock off about half of the price that a Tibetan woman asked for; I know she still made off well. This is the case in the capitol as well, where every shop sells the same things and I can get a couple hundred rupees removed fairly easily. Our shop-owning friends give us the inside scoop: it isn't really yak, it isn't really handmade, it isn't really made in Nepal. But they point us to the things that are. 

Yes, the capitol towards which I head once again. There was no good-bye to Pokhara, though; we will return. My heart is there right now and I'll go get it next week. For now I'll partake in the joy of a dog--well, a joy of a dog. No, I will not be urine-marking my space or greeting with a sniff. I'll be sticking my head out of the window. Here, in these tiny taxis, I do this in order to fit in the vehicle, especially when we max out her capacity. And I find that it is delightful to watch everything pass as the wind cools off my sweating brow. Of course I have to lean carefully in order to keep all my parts from departing or getting my head knocked off.