Bhaktapur, Nepal

I vaguely know I had a dream in which there was a bunch of people, yet once again I didn’t write it down. I woke at 5 am and haven’t gotten back to sleep, but that’s hardly surprising: I went to bed at about 8 pm, even though I recovered from my cold. I first lay reading a Jataka Tale, until the power went out again. Looks like the power is out now—it happens very frequently, not just afternoons and evenings as I thought before. Oh well; I’m probably not going back to the Cybercafé. Electricity is too unreliable.

I hear crowing, and the sky looks to be pale grey. It’s 6:45 am.

Later:

This morning I was looking forward to sightseeing in Bhaktapur, which is actually a separate town from Kathmandu but still in the Kathmandu valley, to the east of the capital. The driver was already at the hotel at nine o’clock in the morning. Actually, he was there earlier; as I left the breakfast buffet, a guy who worked for the hotel accosted me and asked if I was sightseeing this morning, and I said yes but not till ten, and he indicated a small red car in the parking lot (interestingly it looked a lot like my car back in the States). I misunderstood because I knew for certain we were to meet up at ten this morning. I thought it must be a mistake; that it was someone else’s driver, and I went back up to my room, saw that it was only 8:38 am, and brushed my teeth and all that.

Shortly before nine the phone rang, and a woman at the front desk said that my driver for sightseeing was waiting in the lobby. Puzzled and still believing it must be a mistake, I went down and made sure it was the right driver, the one for Bhaktapur; I pointed out that it wasn’t supposed to be till ten, so the woman behind the counter confirmed my room number, and it was indeed the correct room number. He was the right driver: a short bald guy who probably had a recent death in the family, since he was not only bald but also wore white from head to toe. He was shorter than I and wore a white jacket, white jeans, white polio shirt, and a white cap, Western clothes rather than, say, a dhoti and kurta, and he was indeed the driver for the little red car.

He knew very little English and all the Newari I know is “Namaste,” the same as in Hindi. He didn’t seem to be in a good mood, perhaps because I made him wait, but I could be exaggerating. In hindsight, he probably wasn’t so much brusque or bad-tempered as incommunicative because of the language barrier.

On the subject of language, yesterday not only the crazy streets but the transition from “Tashe delek” to “Namaste” was something of a culture shock. The only thing the guy said to me on the way to Bhaktapur was “This is the Pashnuphati Temple,” referring to an impressive white domed Hindu complex that Naresh had already explained to me while we rode to the Boudhanath Stupa. The driver’s silence was welcome, as I sat gawking out the window at the lively scenes outside the car; it’s nice to not be awkwardly attempting to make conversation.
The car eventually went down a narrow and bumpy street (a common thing in this part of the world), and I was fascinated by the sight of a large group of Hindus gathered at a temple with large black racks full of burning and flickering candles. Someone inside the temple had offerings: leaf plates on which people placed flowers and candles much like the ones I remember the sangha placed in the Ganga River while we were on the boat last year.

Soon the car passed on the left the remains of an old Hindu temple; it had steps with some stone animals on either side of them. Many people were bustling about and plenty of vehicles sat around, and the car turned and parked next to another vehicle. I got out of the car after the driver did, and the first thing I saw was a large white gate in front of us. A tour guide came along, a skinny young man, with his hair in a ponytail, wearing dark Western clothes: jeans, denim jacket, black T-shirt and a baseball cap, as if he were in a park in Chicago.

Actually, it seems like in Nepal Western clothes are much more common for guys than for women; I suspect it’s due to the societal double standard that insists that women practice modesty but doesn’t insist the same thing for men, combined with the assumption that Western women are immoral and that Western women’s clothing isn’t modest. I could point out that if I’m wearing a neckline that shows my collarbone, then it’s a low neckline by my standards, but of course I’m a Virgo personality type and dress more modestly than most Westerners; I don’t even like short sleeves or dresses that stop above my ankles. It occurs to me that Nepalese men might think I’m immodest or at least very bold because I’ve gone by myself to this foreign country and walk the streets alone; I’m really not sure what people here must think of female tourists like me, although in Kathmandu they’re accustomed to us. The thing that makes me weird is that I’m an American at a time when Americans don’t want to come to Nepal because they think it’s too dangerous.

The tour guide, Binod, said I had to go to the ticket booth and pay to get in, so I did so and got a pretty parchment-like ticket as a souvenir, along with a complementary little brochure about Bhaktapur. Since the disposable camera I picked up in Tibet was down to only five pictures, I stopped at a camera shop immediately to the left of the big white gate. What looked like a box containing a disposable camera was in fact an empty display box. The male sales clerk (for everyone I interacted with here was male), another little guy, had to get on his bicycle to go get me a disposable camera! It didn’t take him long, not more than ten minutes.

The guide introduced himself as Binod and said that he’s a student and is studying art and architecture. I greeted this info enthusiastically; smiling and saying that’s very appropriate. After all, I majored in visual art during my first year of college and have always had a fascination for architecture and interior design. This fascination for architecture is what drew me to Bhaktapur.

After we walked through the imposing gate, Binod explained that Bhaktapur has different styles of temples: Pagoda, or Sikara (the steep Indian domes). If you look at the pagoda temple roofs at the right angle, they’re shaped like the Nepalese flag, with two triangles, one above the other.
We headed straight toward a pagoda-type temple with two rows of stone animals flanking the steps, a common theme in Bhaktapur. To the left of this temple hung a huge bell, larger than the Liberty Bell but similar in shape. The bell used to be rung in order to deliver news to the town. As Binod pointed out, “Now they have newspaper, TV, radio, and Internet.” There’s also a golden king sitting on a golden lotus throne high above, stuck atop a metal column. It looks precarious, but he’s sat up there for centuries. Just below the lotus throne, a snake or naga curls around the column and hisses. Further to the left of that is the golden gate that used to lead to a palace; it was largely destroyed during an earthquake in 1934.

Beyond the golden gate, the most fascinating thing to me was the Sundari Chok, which translates as “beautiful courtyard.” It is indeed beautiful, with sculpted mythological creatures all around the edges. In the center of the courtyard is an algae-filled rectangular tank, around the edges of which are realistically carved stone snakes. A tall metal snake was centered facing the tank, on one end, and below it was a shiny gold metal spigot consisting of an open-mouthed fish with a couple of other critters, including a rat, on top of it. A king used to bathe here. The lush detail of all these critters was my favorite part of the appropriately-named courtyard.

From another courtyard we approached a Shakti Temple where photography is prohibited and where only Hindus can step inside, but it was OK for me to stand in the doorway and peak inside. Once a year—I find it shocking that this is still done—but once a year one hundred eight animals are sacrificed inside this temple. I refrained from vocally criticizing this tradition, though I’m sure I widened my eyes in dismay. Coming to think of it, my mouth also dropped open. It’s just the sort of thing that unfortunately is likely to give us Goddess-worshipers a bad name. And Gandhi probably wouldn’t have kept quiet about his disapproval: I remember reading in his autobiography that he was appalled at the bloody goat sacrifice going on when he visited a Kali temple in the early twentieth century. Yet this sort of thing still happens. I realize that goddesses like Kali represent both life and death, but this is an example of misusing religion. A temple should not be a slaughterhouse.

The building has a beautiful façade, and when the architect completed it, the king had his hand chopped off so that he wouldn’t be able to come up with a more beautiful piece of architecture for someone else. I found that shocking also, although the story sounded familiar—perhaps in relation to Shah Jahan and the Taj architect. Above the doorway of the Shakti Temple is a wide and elaborately carved wooden design with figures reminiscent of Boudhanath Stupa and also with Nagas and creatures curving around, also flanking the doorway, not just above it. Above are huge eaves consisting of more carved figures and coming to a point. It was really magnificent. There were the usual elaborately carved wooden windows, and at the jutting corner of a roof I saw a creature facing outward with an open mouth, and below it hung a bell.
Oh, yes, I’d like to point out that while I was on a pagoda-shaped temple, I looked up and saw that hanging from the eves were bells with bodhi-leaf-shaped ringers, just like at the Great Stupa in Gyantse, Tibet. And like that stupa (which was part Tibetan style and part Nepalese style, with the Nepalese big Buddha eyes overhead), we entered the beautiful courtyard through a low door, so that when people go through the door they’re automatically bowing.

Binod gave me a fascinating yet disturbing explanation for the carved wooden latticework that fills traditional Nepalese windows. In addition to the ornamentally carved wooden window frame, the window is typically filled in with elaborately carved wooden latticework. It has to do with the caste system, how women from certain castes were expected to be cooped up indoors most of the time (if not all the time) and it was considered immodest for them to be seen. With these latticework windows, women could peek outside, but anyone looking at the window can only see darkness inside and cannot really see inside the house. I felt sorry for all those women with cabin fever for so many centuries; sure, it’s nice to be inside and work on projects, but it’s also great to go out, walk, and explore. Not to mention raise hell.

It occurs to me that modern Western society still harbors a similar attitude, even if it seems more subtle. If you’re female, you’re brought up to believe it’s not safe for you to go out at night; young males, on the other hand, go out at night and get gunned down on city streets. And if you’re a female walking outdoors in daylight, you can expect to be harassed. If power-tripping white male politicians and religious figures had their way in America, women would be indoors all the time, confined to their houses because they are too busy bearing and raising children and not allowed to have birth control or abortions; that is a disturbing aspect of the world that Bush-supporters are attempting to create. Of course, if they succeeded in destroying the world in warfare, there wouldn’t be any women alive to stay indoors and be baby-making machines, but of course I don’t expect Bushworld to make any sense. I could go on and on about women’s stunted lives over the centuries, but that would fill volumes.

Binod took me to the Pottery Courtyard, where very skinny women in cotton saris set up countless rows of pots to dry in the sun, in a courtyard. I would not be surprised if that courtyard contained over a thousand clay pots. We crossed this courtyard and Binod showed me the huge oven where the pottery is baked after it has dried in the sun. It was amazing, a long mound of what looked like smooth dirt, the oven slanted backward and I could see smoke coming out of two spots at the back. In front of it we had passed people working and displays of more pottery, and one guy was making a pot on a huge wheel reminiscent of the film Little Buddha (which, incidentally, was partially filmed in the complex of temples I visited in Bhaktapur, Binod said). I’m going to have to watch that film and spot Bhaktapur, even though Rachel thinks it’s a terrible movie. Indeed, it put more emphasis on the supernatural stuff, unlike Thich Nhat Hahn’s novel Old Path, White Cloud.

While we stood looking at the oven, a merchant walked up to me and displayed a pottery fish-shaped candleholder that hangs from a string of clay beads, and it occurred to me that it would be a good gift for my parents, so I went ahead and bought it for only 250 Nepalese rupees. The guy led me back to his shop to wrap it, and it turned out that he was also selling clay Buddha statues, several inches tall, for 100 rupees—this was a lot cheaper than stuff you can get in Thamel, and it was all made by hand, with plenty of detail. Purchasing pottery in the Pottery Courtyard supports local families. So I also bought a Buddha, and the merchant gave me a little one-inch tall Buddha for free.

Unfortunately, another merchant noticed my purchasing stuff and was eager to sell me a statue or a singing bowl, and another guy with a pole across his shoulders, from which hung baskets of chives, wanted me to buy from him. Yes, Nepalese merchants are at least as pushy as Indian merchants. The situation struck me as comical, and I laughed aloud; Binod was puzzled and asked what I was laughing at, so I felt silly, but I explained, “I buy something from one merchant, so everyone wants to sell me something.”

We afterward went to the Thangka Lama School of Painting, which has six teachers and forty-five students. Indoors, the corridors were very narrow. We entered a room where male students had the thangkas stretched out on frames and were painting them; it reminded me of the Norbulingka Institute in Dharamsala, but the room was much smaller and didn’t have huge glass windows. We also went into another room, where Binod and I sat on rug-covered benches facing a long table in the center of the room. Thangkas covered the walls. The head instructor, who of course was another guy, gave me a talk while showing me some amazing mandala thangkas.

One of the thangkas was painted by a forty-six-year-old lama who’d been painting thangkas for thirty years already! I hope he isn’t going blind. The painting was an amazing World Peace Mandala designed by the Fourteenth Dalai Lama himself. I gasped when the teacher explained this. The outer rings represent the five elements—and the Dalai Lama added a sixth element, Wisdom, which the outermost ring represents. The teacher also showed me a book on the making of the World Peace Mandala, showing the Dalai Lama beginning the original sand mandala in the same design. I actually bought the thangka—for $540!! But as Binod pointed out, it’s something very special, like diamonds; furthermore, it truly moved me. I intend to hang it in a very prominent location, under glass. I think I’ll carefully break the news to my dad, since I was spending his money, that he gave me for the trip! But the money goes to support not only the artist who painted it, but also the school.

On the drive back from Bhaktapur, I noticed that Kathmandu doesn’t have motor rickshaws but tuktuks, three wheeled vehicles that look a little too big for only three wheels and that have a seat for the driver in front and two parallel benches in back, facing each other, so that passengers are in effect sitting sideways. It looks like they can hold as many as ten really skinny people.