Airports

I’m at the airport in Doha, Qatar. There’s just a fifteen minute delay on the next flight—it’s scheduled to leave at 11:50—but that’s not going to be a problem—it’s not a drastic enough delay to prevent my getting on the next plane—tap wood.

Yesterday—was it just yesterday?—things went comparatively smoothly at the Tribhuven Airport, or whatever it’s called, in Kathmandu. One of the guys working there asked me how long was my stay in Nepal, and I made the mistake of saying, “Two days,” when really I should have said, “Four days.”

“Why so short?” he asked.

“Oh, I was here for a couple more days, before I went to Tibet,” I said, which really didn’t make it any better. That’s like saying I wouldn’t have gone to Kathmandu if I didn’t have to in order to enter Tibet. So much for my diplomacy. Another male employee asked me if I’d been to Nepal before, and I said yes, and he was happy with that and asked if I speak Newali! He wasn’t the one who was suspicious of my tubular rolled up thangka; but he was fine with it after I explained.

Last Morning in Kathmandu

It’s a bit after 10 am, and Naresh called me from the lobby to say that the flight has been delayed one and a half hours. Maybe I should run over to the Internet café and send a message about the delay, although I’ve already checked out and my luggage is at the front door. I went ahead and checked out because when he called my room, I figured this time he was an hour early, like yesterday’s driver with the red car. Oh, yeah, it also turned out that his boss sent a message, saying he’s sorry about the dinner engagement. Whew, I’m glad. I said, “It’s OK—I wasn’t crazy about being out after dark. It’s fine with a tour group, but alone it’d be kind of scary.”

Before that, I had a delicious breakfast (except there was no rice, and the fried bread was overdone and crumbled), went back up to my room to brush my teeth, and set out to wander the streets and possibly do last minute shopping. I used up the last of my 1000 Nepalese rupee bills. Shameless. The Horizon Bookshop was still closed, so I went past them. I picked up a Ganesh and Sarasvati at one stand—they were both very very tiny but with lots of detail. I had told the pushy (male, of course) merchant that I was looking for a Bodhisattva statue, particularly Avalokiteshvara, and he insisted in trying to sell me a Shakyamuni Buddha, and I was refusing, when I caught sight of the two little Hindu deities and said I’d like to get them; he still tried to sell me a Buddha also (and I think he was weirded out that I’d be interested in Hindu deities), but I stuck with my choice, despite the pressure to buy something else (something more expensive).

I spotted Barnes and Noble Booksellers—of all places! It was a tiny store that looked very Kathmandu, not very Barnes and Noble; two sides were open to the narrow hectic street, no doubt with roll-up garage doors, and it was a tiny little shop with many piles of English-language coffee table books on a couple of big tables in the center, and with many books and postcards along the walls. I crossed the gutter and went in because this store had the Dalai Lama postcards I was looking for, so I got them and a couple of extras, but then—naughty me—I started browsing in the books, because a coffee table book about Nepal attracted my attention. Next thing you know, I picked out not only the Dalai Lama post cards, but also the book on Nepal and a big coffee table book on Indian embroidery. Naughty, very naughty.

After that, I headed back toward the Vaishali Hotel, turned, and headed back toward the shop where I bought the two Naga statues, because I really wanted an Avalokiteshvara statue, at least for Elaine, if not for me. After being accosted countless times by wallahs and shoe shiners and a little beggar and before this onslaught continued (I swear salespeople in Nepal are truly pushier than in India), I came to the shop, where a smaller Naga was in the place of the large one I got for Elaine. I went inside and saw two Avalokiteshvara statues with a thousand arms and eleven heads each, and they were about the same size as the big Naga. So I got one for Elaine, and one for me. I definitely have done enough shopping and don’t need to do any in Delhi!
Actually, when I get to Delhi, I won’t have time for shopping and just want to relax at the guesthouse. I get the impression that it has good ambiance and I’ll be happy to hang out there. I also have in mind using the last three or four photos in my second disposable camera.
I’ve gone to the cybercafé and sent a message to the guesthouse, and now I’m back to writing in the hotel lobby. It’s about 11 am.

I have little time to dilly dally in Delhi. Actually, I’ll just hang out in the guest house and get some sleep and a shower. I’ll need these things before experiencing many hours of flights and airports.

Incidentally, I had trouble understanding Naresh’s English (that always embarrasses me), and he was a bit…overfriendly, I thought. I realize that when guys in India or Nepal ask, “Are you married?” it doesn’t automatically mean that they’re flirting, but I was still suspicious. Such as when we were leaving the airport and he had his arm draped across the back seat behind me—little things like that. That was his typical way of sitting in the back seat with me, with his arm draped along the back, and I rather wished he’d sit in the front with the driver. In order to get me to look out the window at something, he would tap me on the shoulder; once he reached over and almost touched my hand in my lap, and I quickly moved my hand away. I think that by the time I left Kathmandu the final time, he knew I didn’t like overly familiar behavior. I hope he’s married and has kids, especially since he has my e-mail address.

Later--
Things went comparatively smoothly at the Tribhuven Airport, or whatever it’s called, in Kathmandu. One of the guys working there asked me how long was my stay in Nepal, and I made the mistake of saying, “Two days,” when really I should have said, “Four days.”
“Why so short?” he asked.

“Oh, I was here for a couple more days, before I went to Tibet,” I said, which really didn’t make it any better. That’s like saying I wouldn’t have gone to Kathmandu if I didn’t have to in order to enter Tibet. So much for my diplomacy. Another male employee asked me if I’d been to Nepal before, and I said yes, and he was happy with that and asked if I speak Newali! He probably wasn’t the one who was suspicious of my tubular rolled up thangka.

The Streets of Thamel

It sounds like a concert is taking place nearby, but it’s not classical Nepalese music: it’s a 1970s American rock song. “Wide world” or whatever—music from my childhood. Eek. I might want to close the window soon. Gary did warn me that I might hear loud rock music from the hotel, although I would have expected ragas or Hindu chants.

Water is something you take for granted in the United States; I drink tap water and shower with steaming hot water. Electricity is another thing we take for granted: in America it’s not an everyday thing to have a generator running or to go for a few hours without electricity or to indeed never have electricity and use a treadle sewing machine. I don’t recognize this song. It’s jamming, whatever it is. I wonder what day of the week this is—I don’t think it’s the weekend.

I left the hotel at 4:30 and wandered the streets of Thamel, perhaps for the final time, unless I do it again early tomorrow morning. It’d be nice to, after breakfast, see if the Horizon Bookstore is open, so I can get the Dalai Lama photos they had with their postcard display. The bookstore was already closed when I went out before five this evening; if they’re not open in the morning, I won’t be heartbroken, because I have three copies of another photo of the Dalai Lama. I’m glad I didn’t get any before I went to Tibet, since they might have been confiscated.

While I wandered through the narrow, dirty, and loud streets of Thamel, I promptly bought yet another fairly large bottle of water, at a little stand run by a Hindu woman in a pink cotton sari. While I was at that stand, a guy bought two cigarettes, not packaged at all but handed to him individually. I kept walking, with the intention of finding the travel agency so that I’d get there this evening, but of course I got lost looking for it. However, I saw plenty of interesting sights and was accosted by many friendly people—all male—most of whom were selling something.
The concert continues. The singer is male, of course—this is such a Boy Land, and I’m so wishing I could go to Herland. If it weren’t for the rock music coming from outside, I’d hear Tori Amos singing in my head: “I need a big loan from the Girl Zone.” The music is distracting from my writing, and I’m a bit on the spacey side; after all, I’m getting on a plane and leaving Nepal tomorrow. Too bad I don’t have a one-way ticket to Herland. (Perhaps I should mention that Charlotte Perkins Gilman wrote a novel called Herland back in 1916.)

Anyway, as I wandered the streets and gawked at my surroundings and dodged motorcycles and rickshaws, an old guy with long white hair and beard and wearing yellow robes and forehead makeup—in other words, he looked like a Shaivite priest—came up and sprinkled marigold petals on my hair and put a red bindi mark on my forehead. I smiled and thanked him profusely, and he asked for money, so I gave him a one hundred Nepalese rupee bill (that’s less than two dollars). As he walked away ahead of me, I noticed a beige-uniformed cop accost him, and that made me suspicious that he was just a beggar rather than an actual priest.

I soon spotted a bookstore that sold postcards, including Dalai Lama postcards, which were displayed at the very front of the store, within reach even if you weren’t on the top step. I took three Dalai Lama postcards and stepped in to the counter. A young woman with a round face and a red shawl stood behind the counter, and a guy in a black leather jacket leaned in front of it. They knew about the Shiva “priest,” whom the guy explained is just a beggar from India. I thought that was pretty funny and laughed it off rather than worry about having been made a fool of. (Apparently the fake priest is well-known, because the travel agent, Naresh, knew about him also.) At the bookstore, I chatted with the pair about other things, like about travel in Nepal, and during the conversation I noticed that the young woman didn’t actually participate in the conversation, although I spoke to her in an attempt to get her into the conversation. There sure are lots of friendly people in Nepal…but they are invariably male, unless they’re foreigners. Of course, my experience would be very different if I were actually living with a family in their house; then women would certainly talk with me.

The musician who showed me the way to my hotel last night recognized me at one corner, or rather in a bewildering square with a big map in the center that was actually quite useless for finding your way around the Thamel. We stood around chatting for a while. He asked if I wanted a cup of tea, but I told him I had to go to the travel agency and wasn’t entirely sure how to get there, but he had never heard of it and didn’t know the way there. I had plenty of time but knew I’d be spending some of it getting lost. It turns out that the musician also gives tours in Nepal, in the country. He said that he doesn’t really like Kathmandu (and I said I don’t like Kansas!) and he prefers rural places like Lumbini, where it’s quiet and peaceful and there isn’t all this pollution. The pollution had brought back a little of my congestion after I returned to Kathmandu, but it hasn’t developed into another cold. I gave the musician my e-mail address (funny, the guy at Bhaktapur also asked for my e-mail address—maybe I’m giving it out too much).

During our conversation, the first female merchant I’ve seen came along. She was young, tall and skinny, and I seem to recall her wearing a red sari, or at least something that was red. She was selling passport bags like the one I have, and I smiled and showed it to her, admitting that mine is worn out and has a hole in it. She pointed out that the passport bags she had had thicker black cloth inside, while the black cloth inside mine was very lightweight and translucent. She asked me where I got it, and I said that I ordered it out of a catalog in the States. The bags are made of colorful striped cotton on the back and brocade on the front, and a narrow string forms a loop to go over your head. My old one is royal blue, but I purchased from her a bright red one for one hundred rupees. She wanted me to buy at least one more, but I didn’t. I suppose, in hindsight, I could have gotten a couple more bags to give friends. Too late now. I feel better buying things from women than from men.

A tall and skinny guy who was wandering the street trying to sell a little wooden travel chess set noticed my purchase and tried to sell me a chess set, but I was firm. It was quite like when I bought pottery in Bhaktapur and other merchants took that as a sign that I spent money easily and would allegedly buy anything. At least one more merchant may have attempted to sell me something there, while I conversed with the musician on the crowded street. People were constantly walking past us, and it was noisy with traffic and voices.

While I stood around at the edge of the narrow street, chatting with the musician, and traffic and pedestrians passed by, a little beggar child came along, even though begging is highly frowned upon in Nepal, and the musician told the kid off, but to no avail. The little boy followed me around and occasionally tugged my sleeve, but I was determined to not give him money, because it’s Nepal, not India, and both of us could get in trouble with the police. The back of the customs form, when you arrive in Nepal, says not to give to beggars, so they mean business. When the fake Shaivite priest was with me, a cop had spotted him and chased him off, right after his little ritual with me. But I felt guilty for not giving something to this beggar child, for the boy was obviously desperately poor, with his dirty clothes and his messy, brownish hair pointed in all directions.

It’s weird, but eventually, after wandering totally lost and confused, I saw the travel agency office with about ten minutes to spare—it was 5:50 pm. Whew. Naresh spotted me through the front window and waved, and I waved and smiled back and went in. We had tea and I paid for the driver and tour that I had in the morning. Naresh said that he had shown up at the hotel at ten and was surprised that the driver and I were already gone. I said I was surprised too, and I asked him if he knew why the driver was so early, but he didn’t understand why. I remembered that Binod had said he was a friend of the driver’s, and it occurred to me that the driver just wanted to make sure Binod gave me the tour. I’m glad he did, because he was a much better tour guide than Naresh would have been.

I was concerned because the manager was not present, and he had invited me to the dinner theater thing, which I imagined would be traditional or classical Nepalese music. I was more nervous than excited about this; if I were with a tour group, or had brought a friend, I wouldn’t mind staying out after dark, but when it’s just me, that seems a little crazy. Naresh didn’t know about the invitation, and the manager wasn’t there, so after I had babbled on awkwardly attempting to make conversation (something I’m not good at), it was a relief to leave at about six thirty. I even headed out in the chaotic traffic while it was already getting dark, and I went back to the Vaishali Hotel with some relief at the prospect of quiet and solitude in my hotel room. I didn’t know how I could fill in the half hour with more awkward conversation, only to find that the manager didn’t show up. I had assumed he would be there when I showed up at six, so that I’d get business done and then head over to the concert. Uncertainty took over, and I left early.

I think part of the reason I get so lost in Thamel is the chaotic traffic. I’m trying to get somewhere or trying to go in the right direction while simultaneously getting confused and distracted by the beeping and zooming traffic and the continual threat of getting hit by a vehicle. In addition, the Thamel district is like Bodh Gaya in that the streets have no names. I have an eye for detail, such as colorful puppets (particularly a demon or deity with a bright green face) hanging from the eaves in front of a cluttered shop, or carved wooden masks lined up in front of another shop, or a doorway filled with brightly painted thangkas. But I’m not getting the whole picture, certainly not as if the layout of the streets were a map. I doubt a map would have helped, since there are no street names.

Here I am in the hotel room and the concert is still going on—it’s a male singer—and I’ve been listening. I’m sure I’ll still be able to hear it when I close the window. Between songs, I hear beeping traffic.

The music stopped, and I hear voices from down below, beeping and zooming traffic, and pigeons cooing above.

It’s almost nine and I’m thinking it’s time to go to bed. What an old fuddy-duddy. Really, being around people exhausts me so much. I started going to bed early in Dharamsala, after I came down with a cold, and I haven’t stopped since. The cold went away shortly after I arrived in Tibet, but after I got back to Kathmandu, I started coughing again; undoubtedly this is pollution-related. That proves I could not live in Delhi; to think that until this trip, I had silly fantasies of living in India for a couple years.

While it’s nice that people are friendly and chatty here, I can’t help but notice that only men are chatty. I haven’t really chatted with any women—they tend to be rather quiet. Very quiet. But who am I to talk? I’m an introvert myself and am not in the habit of talking to strangers any more than I must. Nonetheless, speaking almost exclusively with men triggers a sense of isolation, a sort of loneliness. In India, I was always with female sangha members, unlike here. As Tori Amos put it:

Boys on my right side,
boys on my left side….
I need a big loan
from the girl zone.

In Tibet, I think women would have been chatty if we had shared a common language. It seems that in Tibet both men and women are socialized to be outgoing and to chat with strangers. It would have been a really good idea to learn Tibetan before going, although it was only a one-week visit. The Tibetan Children’s Village teaches Tibetan, Hindi, and English from an early age, so it’s easy to communicate in Dharamsala, but in Tibet it’s a different story entirely. It’s a different world.

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.

Back to Kathmandu

The time difference in Kathmandu is like two and a quarter hours from Lhasa, so I’ve gone back in time slightly.

I’m in the hotel room and it’s about 2 pm. I’m exhausted. It’s a culture shock: Lhasa seemed so clean and orderly compared to the chaotic streets of Kathmandu. I don’t think this city is meant to have so many cars! It has lots of bikes and motorcycles, too, but it has so many more cars than an Indian city, or at least it certainly seems to. And the streets of Thamel are medieval—narrow, winding, potholed—and everything’s crowded together.

I met up with the travel agent, Naresh, and he gave me some beautiful postcards to entice me to tour Bhaktapur, and it worked—I came up with 10 am tomorrow as a good time to meet up at the hotel. What the heck, I may as well do a little more touring while I’m in Nepal. I also intend to get a statue or two for Elaine (and probably for myself!) and some Dalai Lama postcards. Elaine, as I may have mentioned, is the coworker who will be picking me up at the airport in Kansas City.

The lights all suddenly came on! I’m tempted to go to the Cybercafé but like Naresh’s manager pointed out, I should take it easy and rest today, because of the transition from Tibet to Nepal. It’s like suddenly returning to India after visiting Tibet. Just the change from “Tashe delek!” to “Namaste!” is startling. However, I might want to just lie down and mindfully breathe for, like, half an hour, because there’s noisy construction going on really close by, like next door, and there’s no way I’m going to sleep through that.

Walking from the travel agent’s office, I got lost again! It’s embarrassing to admit I could be so stupid. It seems like such a simple walk. But the streets are so chaotic and bewildering, and they have no names. After a week in Tibet, Kathmandu seems crazy, chaotic and noisy—I thought the blaring megaphones were bad, but here there’s constant honking and zooming of motorcycles! In Tibet, the steering wheel is on the left and they drive on the right side of the road, just like in America; and although they still honk more than Americans, it’s not like in Nepal and India, where they don’t get a lot of use out of breaks.

A musician showed me the way to the hotel, and I thought I should pay him, and I bought his CD; he tried to sell me his violin-like musical instrument first. He seemed nice, but I was paranoid because of my experience with the rickshaw driver last time I was here, but I’m thinking the musician didn’t rip me off—the CD was $15 or 1500 rupees—Nepalese rupees are less than Indian.

I’ve developed a cough again since arriving in Kathmandu. Clearly I can’t live in a highly polluted city; my respiratory system is too fragile, thanks to all that secondhand smoke my mother forced on me for the first nineteen years of my life. Although Tibet has so much less pollution, many people (mostly women) wear cloth masks like surgical masks. At merchants’ booths, you see them hanging in colorful clusters, for they’re made from a wide variety of colors and patterns. But then, in Tibet I can see how it would be useful against winds and dust storms—certainly, I wouldn’t expect so many germs and so much pollution there.

I spent over an hour at the Cybercafé and forgot to send an e-mail about riding a yak! I’ll have to do something about that.

Now it’s 7:27 pm and I’m thinking I’ll lie down and read Tricycle magazine some more. Oh, yeah, I haven’t mentioned: after lying down and mindfully breathing (but not actually taking a nap), I got up and went wandering to find the Naga statue that I fell in love with and that I’d decided I want to get Elaine. I originally saw it the first time I was in Kathmandu, walking past and totally not in the mood to buy anything, and I saw it again while walking to the travel agency. So I went out…and there it was, displayed on the front left corner of a table in front of the shop. The shopkeeper also had a few Nagas like it but half the size, so I also got myself one that’s half the size of the first. Mine is about five inches tall, and both metal statues are heavier than they look. While in Tibet, I was struck by how often the Nagas appear in temple architecture, as part of the elaborate carvings and murals. That’s not terribly surprising with all the water in Tibet; the Brahmaputra in particular snakes around a lot. Tibet has a lot of sand—something I didn’t think of in spite of all the sand mandalas. Ah, one of which I saw in a somewhat dark room at the Sera Monastery. It was inside a glass display case, like the one at the Tibetan Nuns Project nunnery in Dharamsala, even though normally sand mandalas are destroyed, representing impermanence and detachment.

Boudhanath Stupa

In the morning Naresh and the driver first took me to the Boudhanath Stupa, which Samaya had told me is “full of spiritual energy.” It is indeed, although I feel a difference between going to Buddhist temples with Shantum and a sangha I’ve gotten close to and going to temples with a Hindu travel agent who’s just doing his job and doesn’t speak English clearly. There I go, griping again—but overall, I really enjoyed it and sensed the energy that Samaya had mentioned, though I would have preferred live chanting to the recorded New Age-ish “Om mani padme hum” chant that I could hear presumably coming from a merchant’s booth or shop.

After the car stopped, we walked past many tall buildings and many people and under a colorful, elaborate gate reminiscent of the gate to a Shiva temple in India, or of the Chinatown gate in San Francisco. Straight ahead was the Boudhanath Stupa, which is surrounded by shop faces that could have fit in a German or Swiss city, though the merchandise was primarily related to Tibetan Buddhism, such as ritual tools, prayer flags, statues, and thangkas. It was all like a colorful and lively square around the stupa.

The sky was blue at last and the sun was shining! Under this bright blue sky, the stupa’s most noticeable feature, seen from a distance, is the huge whitewashed dome, upon which sits a square structure with big Buddha eyes gazing in all directions, and above that a pointy roof. Colorful Tibetan prayer flags are strung around the stupa. I’ve read that Kathmandu has many Tibetan exiles, and indeed I saw some, particularly women in dark chupas and spinning prayer wheels as they circled the stupa.

While we circumambulated the temple, a young woman in a sari and carrying a baby approached me and begged for milk for her baby. One of the Garys in Dharamsala had talked about a scam artist who begged for milk for a baby in hopes that someone would get the milk at a specific store, so that the beggar could return the milk for money; in other words, this was a scam. What would the beggar use the money for—drugs? I remembered that situation but I also remembered the woman I had given money to in Dharamsala, and so I went ahead and gave this woman a one dollar bill so that she could go buy the child milk. She reluctantly took the money and continued to indicate the grocery store where she wanted me to get her a package of milk, but I kept circumambulating and thought she gave up with me.

We went around the Boudhanath Stupa three times total and came across a staircase leading to the first roof; the higher levels had stairs blocked by potted plants and bilingual signs saying “No entrance.” But before we got up there, I started turning rows of prayer wheels set into rectangular niches in the whitewashed outer wall; the wheels were about six in a row and a gold-black color and some one foot high. Naresh said, “Faster,” and demonstrated a quicker way to spin the wheels and get them really going. I got the hang of it, until I came to larger and heavier prayer wheels and decided against trying to spin them so fast.

At a Hindu shrine that is part of the outside wall of Boudhanath, Naresh stopped to put his palms together and put a red mark on his forehead. He explained that the stupa was for both Buddhists and Hindus. I rather like that, the tolerance and the mixture and all; and Buddhism originally branched off of Hinduism.

Still on the ground level, we stepped through an entrance and saw a mixture of both Buddhist and Hindu shrines. A wall was awash with red paint and ancient-looking carved stone artwork. To the left was a room filled almost entirely with a huge prayer wheel, which I walked around and spun. I stepped back out and looked at a brightly painted wall. We went back through the doorway, and on the outer white walls of the stupa, not only were there many prayer wheels but also very small niches containing little Buddha reliefs. At least one person was going around and painting these little niches, so that before my eyes a little Buddha went from a terra cotta color to pure white.

I liked walking around on what was sort of the roof, where we were on a more or less flat whitewashed surface and circled around, looking at prayer flags and at the steps covered with potted plants and flanked by grand elephant sculptures. I saw a few people prostrating, Tibetan style, on a nearby roof. I saw many pigeons flying or walking around. I saw a mound of red, yellow, white, blue and green prayer flags on top of a little roof to the my left, as I walked slowly and took in my surroundings and continued listening to the recorded chant. The temple is beautiful and peaceful, and I smiled gently as I walked.

Perhaps part of my reluctance to shop comes from shame: the shame of having materialistic values, combined with a general sense of being ashamed of myself, a feeling I usually only have in Kansas. At Boudhanath, I briefly looked at the many little shops around the stupa, where you can buy thangkas, malas, etc, but while I was in a better mood I certainly wasn’t in the mood to shop. I can get Elaine a statue after I get back to Kathmandu from Tibet. I’d also like to get some other gifts—I saw Dalai Lama postcards, a shop that sells Tibetan women’s paper crafts, and countless shops that sell statues, all in the Thamel neighborhood, a short walk from the hotel. I think I could get to like the Thamel neighborhood, though it would have been more fun to travel with Cara, or it would’ve been great if Etiel had decided to come instead of staying in Dharamsala; I hope I didn’t make a bad impression and scare her off. I have a knack for making bad impressions, except on cats.

Amid the many shops surrounding the stupa, we saw a typical Tibetan temple, reminiscent of those I’d seen in Dharamsala, with steps leading up to a rectangular red building with a gold roof.

While Naresh and I headed back to the car, the beggar who had accosted me earlier returned, with her baby (surely that kid was getting heavy), and she again begged me to buy milk at that particular store. She tried to guilt trip me by asking, “Don’t you care if my baby wants milk?” She also tried to give me back the one dollar bill that I had given her earlier, and she claimed, “I don’t want your money” and insisted that she wanted the milk instead. The driver opened the car door for me and I got in quickly, and he closed the door on the woman. This situation was not a stellar moment in my spirituality; I felt very embarrassed and helpless and incompetent, under the circumstances, rather than blissed out from circumambulating the temple. But at least I was mindfully embarrassed, helpless, uncomfortable, and incompetent.

As I told Naresh in the car, “Now I kind of wish I hadn’t given her the money,” and went on to say that I’d totally forgotten that this wasn’t like India, that I was in Nepal and that this country strongly discourages giving money to beggars. It’s all rather frustrating—it’s so tempting to give money to beggars. Naresh said that the beggar woman is from India; I didn’t ask how he could tell and wondered if he was just prejudiced, assuming that since she was begging surely she wasn’t from Nepal.

Swayambhunath

The Swayambhunath Temple is way up on a hill or very small mountain, and guards in uniforms stood under a dark red archway reminiscent of the archways to Hindu temples in India. After Naresh and I passed through the archway, straight in front of me was a round artificial pool, currently empty of water, above the center of which stood a gold Buddha statue. I turned to the right to approach the temple itself, which is extremely elaborate, with if possible more little reliquary stupas than the Mahabodhi Temple in Bodh Gaya. The small reliquaries are mostly dark old stupas in rows, some with red coloring (probably the kind of powder paint used for the third eye chakra or for throwing on people during the festival of Holi), and some with flower offerings. Here and there beyond these small stupas stand medium-sized whitewashed stupas, like at Boudhanath.

It was sunny while I was at the temples, and my mood was much better than the day before. I felt so much better at these Buddhist temples than in the rainy streets of the Thamel or at the airport. There is indeed spiritual energy at these temples, and I could have put some more effort at tuning into it.

The temple complex contains several buildings, including a festive red, yellow, and gold Tibetan temple decorated with gold Buddhas and Bodhisattvas. Some buildings were small rectangular one-story structures that seem simple at a glance, but up close the detail on these buildings is breathtaking. Columns and doors are elaborately carved of wood, and windows are covered with hand carved wooden trelliswork. One little red brick building displayed a wooden door flanked by red snake reliefs, probably representing either Nagas (snake spirits) or the snake that according to myth protected Siddhartha Gautama during a rainstorm. Both Boudhanath and Swayambhunath have countless colorful prayer flags blowing in the breeze; but you generally see prayer flags billowing in Kathmandu. The center of Swayambhunath Temple is a large white dome, the main stupa. We circumambulated it, and I’m tempted to say some devout monkeys did the same.

Near the center of the temple is a Hindu shrine where many visitors prayed and delivered flower offerings and rang a metal bell, and where photography was not permitted. The shrine in question stood to the left of the door to a formidable stone square structure covered with elaborate carvings. I gazed at this structure and peeked into the dark interior through a latticework window.

During my circumambulations, I stepped inside a one-room museum full of stone Buddhist and in some cases Hindu artwork. Statues and plaques lined the walls on simple wooden shelves, and mostly these ancient works of art had paper labels that looked like they had been written a hundred years ago; the English was in old-fashioned script.

Something I found disturbing at Swayambhunath, despite all of the above positive comments, was not the quantity of scruffy stray dogs, but the condition of one of the dogs. I suddenly heard very loud and suffering whimpering and howling coming from a lookout point, a balcony overlooking Kathmandu. I turned to look and watched, to my horror, a large scruffy dirty black dog that was walking very slowly and awkwardly away from the lookout point. It kept howling in agony, and nobody seemed to care. It moved slowly, slowly, toward a downward flight of steps and started getting a little quieter, then loud again as it went down the steps. I wondered whether it had rabies or was wounded, and although I was horrified by its pain, I didn’t want to get anywhere near it. If it had rabies or some other disease, staying away from it was a good idea. I walked well around the dog and headed for the lookout point, where indeed I had a fine view of Kathmandu. I still thought of the dog as its whimpering died down and I felt helpless. The suffering this dog experienced and my inability to help and everyone’s apparent indifference did not sit well with me.

The rather amusing aspect of Swayambhunath Temple is the monkeys, monkeys, and monkeys. They run around freely, climb on the little stupas and the big stupa and the walls and window frames, and you should really be careful not to stand below a monkey while it’s pooping. I was just about to get closer to the big stupa, and thought better of it as I warily eyed a monkey. I encountered families of monkeys while climbing the steps, and that’s the point at which I started taking pictures of them. Near the large stupa is a lotus pedestal of several feet around, on top of which lies an enormous gold dorje or thunderbolt; it was probably about six inches long, lying from side to side, and a large monkey climbed up it and sat in the center. I can never get tired of monkeys. Oh, yes, they’re the pink butt kind, not the black-faced lemurs.

Another disconcerting thing at the temple is all the merchants. They’re right there amid the little stupas, occupying sacred space. Sure, they’re selling Buddhist and Hindu items, mostly statues, incense, and malas, but it seems like an odd spot for shopping and I still was not in the shopping mood. Worse, as you start going back down the stairs to leave, there’s a little café labeled “Fast Food” where you can get packaged food and cold beverages. I went in and got a big bottle of water, despite my apprehensions. Outside the café are a couple of very old and beautiful three-foot-tall black reliquary stupas, like the ones around the large stupa. Propped up in front of one of these stupas was a sign with an arrow saying “Fast Food.” Tacky much?

I wasn’t sure whether I should be appalled or amused, but I took a picture of them—I’m not avoiding the ugly bits completely even with the camera. Perhaps I am being too harsh by judging the “Fast Food” sign as irrelevant; after all, in my house Buddha statues sit in front of fantasy novels on bookcases. I believe in mixing art into everyday life, so who’s to say it isn’t appropriate to mix spiritual things with everyday things? Nepal is like India and London; everything is crowded together in riotous chaos, and it’s best to go with the flow. For that matter, I probably shouldn’t be critical of the merchants around the stupa, either; they need the money.

Naresh led me toward the stairs leading down the mountain. Indeed, from the top of the steep stairs, it didn’t look like a hill anymore but rather a genuine mountain, although I’m sure it’s very short by Himalayan standards. As we headed down the stairs, an orange-clad Theravada monk stood silently, sideways in relation to the steps, and he held a large silver begging bowl. I recalled that people put food in the Buddha’s bowl rather than money, and the only food I had with me was dried candied ginger in a plastic bag. In hindsight, it occurred to me that I really could have put money in his bowl, but by the time that occurred to me, we were far below the monk on the steps.

After the temples, we got back to the hotel, and Naresh told me that my visa, etc, would be ready at five pm. I was happy to hear it, after all the waiting. I wanted to part with him then, but we walked back to his office, Blue Bird Travel, and I still wasn’t entirely sure that I’d be able to find it for myself, so he said that he’d go to the hotel rather than let me get lost looking for his office. He didn’t phrase it that eloquently, but that was the gist of it.

I’m in the hotel restaurant for lunch. I ordered something experimental and, as it turns out, very delicious: dumplings made from vegetables and nuts and in a sauce that is reminiscent of hummus but more watery and hot, and cilantro floats in it. Also, I had two pieces of roti, which I broke up and dipped in the sauce. The server brought me a glass of water, but it was hot water in a little juice glass. I had asked for water because I wanted to conserve my big bottle of water so that it would last till the morning (which it did).

Only two other patrons occupy the restaurant. One speaks fluent British English and the other one isn’t so coherent; the older one with the fluent English does most of the talking and expresses a very anti-polyandry stance and criticism of women who sleep with more than one man, but oddly he doesn’t say anything against polygamy or male promiscuity. Double standard much? He mentioned Elizabeth Taylor saying that she only has sex with men to whom she’s married, and says she slept with a lot of men, but she was also, I might mention, married to a lot of men. At some point in the conversation I heard him say, “You can criticize America,” and I got a sense that he believes promiscuity to be typical of American women but doesn’t care whether or not it’s typical of American men. At least Americans typically only have one partner at a time.

2
After lunch, I briefly attempted to take a nap up in my room, but after fifteen minutes I decided to get up and go to the cyber café while it’s sunny and the electricity is working. Impermanence.
I walked to an Internet café very close to the hotel, and the connection is unbelievably slow. It’s been ten minutes and I haven’t even logged onto AOL…OK, I got logged on and was selecting addresses and was having some trouble getting it to cooperate—I don’t have everyone’s address memorized, of course, and at first typing the first letter was enough, but then that stopped working. And then the screen went blank—the power is out, like yesterday. If it’s anything like yesterday, it won’t be back on for a long time. Soon I was the last person in the café, and I approached the boy who worked there, but he didn’t understand what I meant when I asked how much I owe, and he didn’t want me to pay, which was a relief since I didn’t get anything accomplished.

I wandered the streets of Thamel and tried not to get lost this time. The shops did not put me into a shopping mood, just a gawking mood. I quickly dodged crazy noisy motorcycles that came zooming along; too bad the streets of Thamel don’t have any sidewalks. I wandered the narrow streets for a while—probably not more than half an hour.

It rained lightly and I heard thunder before I went back to the hotel room and made another futile attempt at a nap. The thunder and lack of electricity certainly motivated me to be lazy. That and having a cold and being somewhat discombobulated again. But at least I meditated while lying down. The Buddha said there are four positions for meditation; they include not only sitting but also standing, walking, or lying down. While I lay in bed doing a reclining Buddha meditation, the thunder got loud, and at about four fifty I went down to the lobby to wait for the travel agent and felt bad that I was making him go out in the comparatively heavy rain for my sake. With all the power outages, it’s a good thing the hotel room contained candles and matches. I relaxed in my room with my journal while I listened to the rain pouring down.

Naresh was supposed to meet up with me at five. At five twenty I lost patience and put my bag in my coat, zipped up, put the hood up and tied it, and went out… and met up with Naresh on the street. It turned out that he brought my paperwork with him, so we went back to the hotel and I didn’t have to go back out in the rain again—I stayed in the rest of the evening. As I came through the door, the very young doorboy’s jaw dropped, I guess because I returned so soon after going out, or perhaps because the travel agent was sharing his umbrella with me. Scandalous. From what I understand, sharing an umbrella has a compromising connotation in Japan; maybe Nepal has the same attitude. Anyway, Naresh gave me my tickets, Chinese visa and a photocopy of the visa, my itinerary, and a business-sized envelope containing an itinerary and U. S. dollars for the Tibetan tour guide, whom he explained I’d be meeting at the airport.
I was cheered up since I had all this official stuff settled, and I skipped back up the stairs. I took a shower and lay down and this time did fall asleep, while it was pouring out. When I woke up, it was after 10 pm, and I wrote in my journal for a while. My cold is definitely fading away, which shouldn’t be surprising given how much I’ve rested.

I’m thinking I don’t recommend traveling to Kathmandu by yourself, even though I’m a loner and like to think of myself as a free spirit, I’m really an introverted Virgo personality type who’s mentally unhinged. Of course, since I am a loner it should theoretically be excessively appropriate for me to go places on my own—and really it was no big deal when it was San Francisco or Washington DC—or London, though technically I was with my sister.
My head is spinning like a prayer wheel.

I again went to bed very early; I’ve been doing this ever since the cold set in, and I suspect that the air in Tibet is a lot cleaner and will therefore take away my illness. I rather think the worst is over: I’ve had scarcely any yellow phlegm, and I feel more human than I did yesterday.

Kathmandu, Nepal

View from my hotel window in Kathmandu

I arrived at the airport in Kathmandu, where it was gloomy, grey, and pouring out. I didn’t hear thunder and the rain was nothing compared to torrential downpours in Kansas, but it was certainly raining steadily. I remembered that on the pilgrimage last year I had no trouble using Indian money, and since I was running late I didn’t want to hold up the travel agent anymore, so I didn’t stop to exchange money. I furthermore figured I could do it at the hotel front desk. I met up with the travel agent Naresh, who in the airport stood with a sign with my name on it, and he led me out to a small white car with a driver.

I climbed into the back seat through the left passenger door, but the travel agent started getting into the car through the same door, so I quickly slid across the seat. Oddly, after we were settled into the back seat of the car, I noticed his right hand was draped across the back of the seat, almost as if he were trying to touch my shoulders. I scooted as far as I could to the window and wished he’d sit in the front seat, next to the driver, a skinny young male with curly hair. The travel agent, Naresh, was rather ordinary-looking, with a conservative short hairdo and a pencil-thin mustache, and he wore Western clothes, including a windbreaker; he looked to be between thirty-five and forty years old.

By the time I was riding in the back seat, the rain came down pretty heavily. I asked, “Has it been raining like this for long?” Naresh, said, “Only the past fifteen, twenty minutes.” I laughed. “As soon as I got here!” I said. I had seen the rain before the plain landed.

On the train early that morning, my virus had reached the hacking-up-yellow-phlegm stage, and I was excessively spacey for someone who’s been meditating for several years. Very congested, complete with congested waxy ears, here I was in Nepal on my own and having trouble understanding Naresh’s English or just about anyone’s English, when they actually spoke English.

During the rainy ride, I did some sightseeing, as I observed to Naresh, “Kathmandu looks a lot like India.” He agreed, fortunately for me; I wouldn’t want to offend. It has much the same architecture, in particular simple two- or three- or more story buildings that are like blocks gradually put on top of each other and with balconies stuck on. Typically they are painted some variation of yellow, white, or off-white. Many buildings and shops include roll-up garage doors or wooden double doors that are open during business hours. What I find different about the architecture was two things: 1) the wooden double doors in shops often have nothing but a narrow doorframe between them, so that they weren’t so much double doors as multiple doors and you’d be looking at a one-story brick building in which the front is a row of three or four sets of accordion-like doors. 2) Elaborately carved wooden window and doorframes, but maybe it’s just the particular style that I found different. However, it’s definitely different in that the windows tend to be covered with elaborately carved wooden trellises.

Between the airport and the Thamel, the touristy neighborhood where the hotel is located, I saw many more cars (Japanese or Korean) than I would have seen in India, and absolutely no rickshaws or motor rickshaws. This was sort of a culture shock. Certainly the Thamel neighborhood has the three-wheel bicycle kind of rickshaws, but I haven’t seen any of those odd little motor rickshaws in Kathmandu.

Rickshaws on a typical Thamel street.

At the hotel I got my room key and, in the lobby, gave my passport to Naresh, and got an update. Basically, at some point the following afternoon he would have my passport and Chinese visa and plane tickets and bring them to me. I was so out of it and confused, I had looked at my itinerary and thought I was supposed to get a Chinese visa at the airport, and I asked around and found out that I supposedly had to go to the Chinese embassy, so I mentioned this in the car on the way to the hotel. But no, the travel agent was taking care of all that stuff. Whew. Naresh asked me if I wanted to do any sightseeing tomorrow, and I expressed an interest in visiting the Boudhanath Stupa and the Swayambhunath Temple, and so we made an agreement on that, and he told me how much it would cost; he also didn’t want me to pay in Indian rupees.

Another scatter-brained thing I did, having a cold and having gone for a while without a shower, was to take a quick shower in my hotel room after I took my bags up; really I should have taken the shower after we parted. It was really inconsiderate of me to leave the travel agent waiting in the lobby, although the couches in the lobby are far more comfy than the beds.

The hotel looks flashy out front and in the lobby, complete with bellhops and shiny gold Buddha statues, but the room is plain and has no bottled water (maybe supplying two complimentary bottles of water is just an Indian practice in hotels and guesthouses), and the beds, which have very dark green coverlets and white sheets, are sunken in the center. I suppose if I were less lazy I could take the mattress and turn it over, though it might be just as sunken on the underside. Of course, I did request budget hotels, so I should be surprised I don’t have to squat and take bucket baths.

I parted with the travel agent at the Vaishali Hotel in the Thamel neighborhood and felt relieved to be on my own instead of with Naresh. I wandered the narrow, medieval, dirty and potholed streets, which are full of white Western tourists and colorful shops. While I stood in front of a tiny shop and bought bottled water, the electricity went out. Despite the rain and lack of electricity, I wandered around sight-seeing for some time; I didn’t want my melancholy to prevent me from getting a taste of the neighborhood. I felt ashamed for being melancholy when here I was on the other side of the world, where I should be excited. My father gave me a lot of money for this trip, and it seemed ungrateful and unappreciative to not feel blissed out, but emotions happen whether you like it or not. The shops were certainly fascinating: puppets hung from rafters, thangkas hung in windows and beyond doors, books and postcards were lined up inside and facing open doorways, many statues and masks stood or leaned or hung from walls. I was completely uninterested in buying anything, however; I just wanted to observe and walk. Perhaps because I am a social phobic introvert with a cold, or perhaps because of shock induced possibly by the contrast between being on my own and being with a sangha, part of me just wanted to be alone and invisible.

The Thamel reminds me of the Haight-Ashbury neighborhood in San Francisco and is really quite charming, especially if you overlook all the trash in the street and don’t think about it being too influenced by tourists. Well, it is Nepal, not the USA. Right up next to each other stands row upon row of tiny shops selling backpacks, shawls, statues and other Tibetan Buddhist ritual tools, puppets, books, postcards, handmade paper products such as journals and lanterns, wool felt items, thangkas, patchwork tapestries, wooden masks—really, everything you’d expect for sale and everything you could possibly want if you were a Westerner in Nepal. And there were plenty of Westerners slumming around: backpackers and dharma bums. However, I think most were French, German, or Italian, and I felt like I’d never hear English spoken clearly again. Maybe I’m the only American in Nepal; the travel agent in Kansas had given me a print-out warning about terrorists and burglars in Kathmandu, but that was six months ago, before the king stepped down.

As I wandered through the very narrow and bustling streets, I gawked and occasionally took pictures and dodged zooming motorcycles. It began to rain again, but only lightly, and I pulled up my coat hood and zipped up and trudged on. A man behind me called, “Umbrella, ma’am?” I raised my hand and said, “No, thanks.” I didn’t feel like buying anything but rather felt like wandering around as if I were in some bizarre dream. To be honest with myself, I truly felt like going up to my hotel room, hiding from humanity, and sleeping. When you’ve got a cold, you need a lot of sleep.

The traffic in the Thamel consists primarily of motorcycles, rickshaws, and pedestrians. I thought that I could simply go in a certain direction and not get lost in the Thamel, but the streets have no street signs and no names that I can tell, and sometimes, I came to a dead end and turned and kept walking, and unfortunately I didn’t count how many blocks I walked, nor did I take note of prominent landmarks. I noticed little detailed things such as certain puppets or sculptures. My eyes were overwhelmed with the sights around me, and I was focused on my fascinating surroundings rather fortunately at that point. In short, I got lost.

As I wandered with the uneasiness of someone who is lost in a strange place, several rickshaw drivers accosted me, and I kept trudging on, but I started thinking that maybe I should climb onto a rickshaw, because I really had no idea where I was and wanted to get back to the hotel and rest. I heard thunder for the first time.

A young rickshaw driver, like so many parked at the side of the road, got my attention and was quite persistent. While I was somewhat nonchalant, or rather had deadened my emotions, more and more I liked the idea of just getting back to the hotel and closing myself in my room, alone and quiet. I mentioned the name of the hotel, Vaishali Hotel, and the driver recognized it and said he knew the way there. After some hesitation, I took up the rickshaw driver’s offer. “How much does it cost?” I asked, after he asked me where I was going and I said the Vaishali Hotel and he enthusiastically said he knew where that was.

“It’s no problem,” he said and waved me into the rickshaw. By that I thought he was saying that he was taking pity on me and my discombobulation and giving me a free ride. I climbed up, first feeling some hesitation due to my fear of heights, but it turned out to be easier than I expected, and as I settled on the little padded bench, I thought this was not scary at all. Of course I decided I’d definitely pay him anyway, despite his seeming indifference to a fee. A rickshaw driver needs money, of course.

The ride was very bumpy because of, guess what, the condition of the roads. They were full of pot holes and the usual trash. I held on tight to the wooden slats that made the old-fashioned canopy. The rickshaw bumped into the back of some guy’s motorcycle and he cussed out the driver in what I thought was a German accent, and I had no idea what he was saying; it was probably in Newali. The rickshaw driver didn’t seem to think the accident, which involved no damage to persons or property, was worth sticking around, and after a few words he continued driving. He looked like he was about twenty years old, and I got to thinking he wasn’t a fabulous rickshaw driver.

Oddly, the driver took me on a route that included a good look at the royal palace, or at least the wall around it, on a big busy street that contained no other rickshaws. He pointed to the palace and told me it was the Red Palace, as if this was an amateur tour. I began to wonder if he was deliberately taking a longer route to gain my pity, and I felt very suspicious. I was correct in feeling suspicious. Finally, he stopped the rickshaw in a narrow Thamel road that seemed like an alley. He pointed to a tall beige building and said, “There is the Vaishali Hotel.”

After a beat I recognized it and said, “Oh, great, thanks!” I jumped down and said, “Really, I have to pay you something…” as I opened my passport bag and reached in.

“Fifty dollars,” he said. I laughed. “Forty dollars.”

“Not hardly,” I said. He went the long way around and wanted me to pay him a ridiculously high sum of money, as if he’d taken me as far as New Delhi! It’s no wonder that, shortly after I climbed into the rickshaw, he had asked me how long I’ve been in Kathmandu; perhaps I should have lied instead of saying this was my first day. Beware of scam artists while traveling alone.

“Thirty dollars, no less. That was a very long drive,” he said. He was quite demanding, after seeming so amiable earlier (like a jerk you’ve just married under false pretenses, the best explanation for why my next door neighbor is married) and the rickshaw driver went on about how he needed money for education. I tried to give him three one dollar bills, but he refused to take it and by then demanded ten dollars.


Finally, just wanting to shove him off, I pulled out a five hundred note in Indian rupees. I said, “This is worth ten dollars.” He wouldn’t take it because of the currency, and I lost patience and said, “That’s final.” I threw the piece of paper at him and marched off to the hotel. I was suddenly afraid he’d chase after me, but he didn’t. No doubt he didn’t take me past the wall around the hotel because he didn’t want the guard or the bellhop to witness his scam. (500 Indian rupees are about $10 in U. S. money, and I didn’t yet know that 500 and 1000 Indian rupee bills are illegal in Nepal!)

Earlier, before I took my walk, I had intended to exchange Indian money for Nepalese rupees at the hotel’s front counter, because I needed three thousand Nepalese rupees for the tour of the Boudhanath Stupa and the Swayambhunath Temple tomorrow. The clerk had told me they can exchange Indian money but not five hundred or one thousand rupee bills, and he showed me a placard on the wall behind the desk that also announces this. Unfortunately five hundred rupee bills were almost all the money I carried. He had called a little jewelry shop around the corner, inside the hotel, and they said that I could do it later.

I checked again after I had been out wandering, and this time the store could do two thousand rupees, but what they did was exchange it for Indian 100 rupee bills, which I took to the front counter to exchange for Nepalese rupees. The little shopkeeper I swear looked like a pimp, in need of a shave and wearing a black leather jacket and having the top few buttons of his shirt open to display a gold necklace; this didn’t help to make me more at ease. I was very addle-pated, tired, and finally desperate enough to mention going to a money exchange place, since, as I pointed out, I needed three thousand for the tour, and the clerk warned me about going to money exchange places: he said that they charge twenty-five percent interest. Probably because of my cold, I still felt terribly stupid and even strangely stressed out. I was pathetic enough that the front desk clerk took pity in me and took money out of a safe, so I ended up with thirty-five thousand Nepalese rupees. Whew! He then went into a long conversation with me, telling me the front desk number and asking how my room was and all, and going on and on for a long time, while I was anxious to go up to said room and take a nap.

The young man behind the front desk at the hotel was very friendly and chatty. On one hand, perhaps he was flirting, though I didn’t think so; I think it more likely that he was just using me to practice his English (which, incidentally, is significantly clearer than Naresh’s). Although I acted patient with his chattiness, I found it kind of annoying, really. I recently read a novel by Spider Robinson called Escape from Kathmandu, which explains a tendency people have of using foreigners, such as the main character, as tools for practicing their English, and the protagonist found this very annoying and wasn’t as patient as I appeared.

It certainly didn’t help that I was making an ass of myself: I felt really out of it and congested, not to mention somewhat bummed out. I felt terribly stupid and ridiculous and wanted to be invisible, to not be seen by any human. I don’t know if I often felt that way while I lived in St. Louis, but I have regularly had a frequent strange wish to be invisible since moving to Topeka, Kansas, so not my kind of town, where people stare at me as if I have two heads, when they’re not harassing me.

I didn’t understand my befuddled emotions since arriving in Kathmandu; I only knew I had to get to the privacy of my hotel room and have some solitude. As soon as I got a chance to leave the talkative desk clerk, I eagerly started heading to my left, toward the staircase.


Unfortunately, I noticed the bar: a few Nepalese men were sitting at the bar and staring at me, and at least one of them smiled unblinkingly at me as though he thought I was insane. I certainly didn’t feel sane and rather abruptly ran up the stairs. Near the top of the staircase, I stumbled, but fortunately I wasn’t in sight of anyone.

After I finally got upstairs and locked myself in my room, I set up my meditation cushion on the bed, sat cross-legged on top of it, and began to observe my breath. The phone rang. It was the front desk clerk. He wanted to chat, and he asked me what part of America I’m from, and said he’d been to Mexico but not the United States. He chatted on about that, and I figured out that, like in the novel Escape from Kathmandu, he was indeed practicing his English. He apologized for bothering me, and I said with a cheerfulness I didn’t feel, “Oh, it’s alright. Good-bye.”

I finally got off the phone, sat back on my cushion, crossed my legs, closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and began to breathe mindfully. The phone rang again. It was the desk clerk again. He asked, “I am sorry to bother you again, Susan, but do you need a wake-up call?”

“No, thank-you. I have an alarm clock,” I said. I gave up with my sitting meditation and instead got under the covers and, after a few minutes of reclining meditation, went to sleep.

I still hacked up bits of yellow phlegm, and I rather suspect Kathmandu has its share of pollution, though I don’t think it’s as severe as Delhi; still, it wasn’t good for my respiratory system. The power was out for three hours, till about 8 in the evening, but fortunately my room contained two candles and two small boxes of matches. No doubt the rain and my illness were not the only reasons why I felt melancholy. During my first day in Kathmandu, I lived in the present moment—an easy thing to do in a strange place. I went to bed around six o’clock in the evening, while the electricity was not working, and I mostly stayed in bed, though I recall waking up and seeing a couple of glowing lamps. That may sound like I was getting an abnormal amount of sleep, but I still had that virus.


My visit to Kathmandu so far was excessively surreal, and I was feeling lonely, grumpy, exhausted, congested, and stupid. Not to mention acting stupid. It’s like if the director of Lost in Translation decided to make another, similar movie.