...tuck in

I have just finished a delightful, fresh breakfast in a beautiful outdoor courtyard. There is a slim tree sprouting in the center and providing a light canopy above us. For somewhere between 7 and 8 in the morning, it is awful humid. Walls are made of brick or painted concrete or displaying a huge carved fresco of sorts depicting mountains, jungle, four "super natural" creatures and the "symbol of brotherhood" (a bird on a bunny on a monkey on an elephant).

There is the sound of rushing water splashing around the corner and the guttural cooing of pigeons are all interrupted by distant honks and the occasional clatter of breakfasts being made above us. Kathmandu is a crowded city where people live all over each other and small alleyways lead us to staircases that ascend into heights of living spaces and shared bathrooms. 

I am in Thamel, the part of Kathmandu that tourists frequent. The narrow streets are lined with trekking information, gear shops sporting familiar brands, bookstores, and shops selling all kinds of Nepali-made wares, from clothes to Gurkha knives, handmade bags, masks, beads and all kinds of other trinkets. Rickshaws wheel past with riders sitting in the back and the driver pedaling up front. Most people seem to drive a motorcycle or moped and those zoom past. There is much honking here from all forms of transportation and when you hear it, you inch towards the curb and feel the air whoosh as a car or bike speeds through. 

I am sitting in a pair of new pants myself, which are a bit like Aladdin's, except black. I bought them because my luggage didn't arrive with me in the country. Somehow I was expecting this and was little phased by it; I just hope they show up soon. When they do I'll take a taxi to the airport to grab them--a taxi ride that is bumpy, close, and erratic. It is a funny stereotype about this part of the world, but it is upheld: on the way over we actually hit someone on a bike and kept going without so much as a glance in the rear-view. There are no lights, only blue uniformed crossing guards standing on their shaded platform in the middle of the chaos. They seem content with the way things move. I realized I'd better tuck my elbow in or lose it, which was tougher than one might expect due to the size of the van, which was somewhere between VW and matchbox.

But all of it is deeply beautiful. The people are kind and friendly and hospitable in their poverty. The buildings, tangled and colorful, seem to resemble a Lego city and remind me how unique it is in Palestine to have architecture uniform in facade. And unlike the rolling hills and flat places in the Middle East, here the city spreads out like a soup in a bowl of mountains. Tall, tenacious mountains.

It is the rainy season now so the peaks are shrouded in those artistic clouds. I've seen this before--Ah, yes! In all those glorious paintings of Chinese or Tibetan landscapes. Their shapes are mysterious, coy. We know they are there, we see hints of grandeur, we sense their wisdom. At night, however, I escaped to the roof for a moment, though my body craved long-awaited sleep, and got to look over rooftops and through alleys and even into living rooms with blinking television sets and cups of tea. And above it all was the silhouetted grandeur of one potent mountain. I must have been facing the west for the light of day stubbornly draped herself on his shoulders allowing me the shape of his figure. I marveled at his size and then at the mountains of clouds that climbed up above him.

Kathmandu! I thought. I'm in Kathmandu! Yet, despite my wide-eyed wonder, the heaviness of sleep was more powerful and I climbed down and tucked myself into bed. Well, it was more of a fall-onto-and-immediately-into-sleep kind of tuck, but, either way, Kathmandu will be there in the morning. And indeed she is, awake, fresh and beautiful.