There is a game I like to play when traveling where I try to
think of the worst-case scenario I might face in any situation. When it comes
to Nepal, the impossibility of predictability means that I have never come
close to winning. It’s still fun to try to imagine what could go wrong and
always be surprised by the sheer endlessness and creativity of the reality I
end up facing. For example, I never could have foreseen that we would have lost
five traditional Nepali drummers to the streets of Kathmandu when going to a
Tharu wedding. Or taking the 12 hour bus
ride to Kathmandu from Tulsipur for what was supposed to be a two day trip to
renew our visas only to find the entire country shut down and be forced to
spend our last three weeks in Nepal holed up our hotel or hiding in a
restaurant as the metal shutters were dropped to protect against protesters
enforcing a bhanda. In Ecuador I never would have imagined the crippling pain
of needing to pee so badly on a bus ride, and the unheeded pleas to the driver
to pull over, that left me with trying to decide if it was better to have my
friends hold me out the window or attempting to use a Coke bottle. Despite the
overcrowded bus that ensured no privacy, on what could only generously be called
a road, I opted for the Coke bottle. It didn’t work out as I would have hoped.
About a month before Scott and I were planning on leaving
Nepal this last time, we woke one morning to a deep, penetrating, utterly
invasive ruckus above, below, and all around us. The noise was one so pervasive
we couldn’t tell what direction it was coming from. We grumbled, bickered in
that no sleep irrational way that people do, and stumbled our way through the
workday. Upon arriving home that evening we found the whole place covered in a
fine dust of white powder. Our landlord, having disappeared on some vacation,
had decided that it was the perfect time to have the marble sanded.
The next morning/middle of the night we were again woken up
by what our instincts clearly identified as the sound of hammering. Being 4am,
our brains had a little harder time believing that someone could possibly be
doing any kind of construction work at such an hour. But this was Nepal, where
nothing is too absurd to be true. Ever.
We were to learn that
our instincts were in fact correct, and over the next few days, we were able to
piece together what was happening. Up
until this point the bakery below us had just been a retail space. They had now
decided to turn it into their main production facility and were therefore doing
a redesign on the place. To protect our
sanity -- and our lungs from the ever-encroaching marble dust -- we decided to
stay in an extremely low-budget “hotel” in Thamel for the weekend. The room had
that musty permanence that seems to be a built in design feature of such
abodes. The water was hard. As were the beds. No mind. At least it was quiet.
At first.
Our room was in the back and faced into a courtyard shared
by a few other hotels and bars. As it turned out one of those bars hosted a
weekend jam session at night. The band played by a window opening up to the
courtyard. There was no pane in the window. Courtyards echo. Marley,
Springfield, Nirvana, Pink Floyd. Covers upon covers. Constant dripping from
the bathroom. Needless-to-say we did not achieve the peace and tranquility we
were seeking that weekend. Nor were we particularly surprised. It was almost as if this were the only way it
could have been. At least it was Tihar and there was the entertainment of kids
yell-singing the Tihar song in exchange for money. A brilliant holiday that I
wish I could have partaken in as a child. Or as an adult for that matter. It’s
like trick-or-treating, except you get cash and goodies. And you don’t have to
wear a costume. Brilliant.
The early morning construction also signified that bakers
would now be starting work in the predawn hours. It was clear that sleep would
become completely illusive to us. For
two people for whom sleep is already stressful and not a sure thing, such a
situation did not bode well for our ability to cope with what can already be a
trying existence in Kathmandu. One needs to be able to laugh off the daily
trials of living in such a city, but without sleep those laughs can easily turn
into tears. Or screams.
We decided to go farther the next weekend. To Dulakhil, in
the hills that make Kathmandu a valley.
We read reviews on Tripadvisor, and found a place that was affordable
yet highly loved. When we arrived it was farther from town than we might have
hoped, but the grounds were nice and the views of the Himalayas picturesque.
Despite being the high season of October there were no other guests. This
struck us as odd, but it wasn’t the first time we had been the only guests in a
hotel in Nepal, so we didn’t give it too much thought. We quickly discovered
that we had no running water. Not the end of the world. A few hours later, and
with no options for an out, we were informed that they host a dance party every
Friday night. Why we were surprised by this I’ll never know. We were invited if
we wanted to join the 50 or so people they were expecting (mostly young men).
Strange that NO ONE had mentioned this in the reviews or in the emails we
exchanged during the reservation process. The place began to fill up around six
and we maintained a twinge of hope that like most things in Nepal, this would
end by 10pm. Not so. It was a rowdy
crowd with people rocking out and drinking late into the night. I stepped
outside our door just in time to catch a glimpse of someone puking off the top
balcony onto the floor below.
The next morning, with a forced determination, we set off to
take the famous hike/pilgrimage the area was known for. Up to an ornate Buddhist monastery that was
built on the site where the Lord Buddha himself, back in the day when he was
still a lowly prince – before attaining enlightenment under a boddha tree – had
offered up his own flesh for a starving tiger and her cubs. Hard to feel sorry
for your “struggles” when you have that story to compare yourself to. We were
skeptically picked up by a bus driver on the way into Dulakhil proper. It took
us awhile to find the trail but we eventually were on our way. We climbed
hundreds and hundreds of stairs. The first or last steps on any true pilgrimage.
After making our way about half way up we found ourselves at
a crossroad. We could go up or down. Up seemed logical, but we were at the
point where we could have easily justified down as the right direction. Luckily
a young Nepali lad showed up at just that moment. He was on his way home from
school. His house happened to be right on the trail we were going. He pointed us in the direction we needed to
go and then, since he too was headed in the same direction, we struck up a
conversation with him about life and politics in his neck of the woods. He told
us about school and the challenges he faced in being able to attend. He told us
that his father had died about a year before and his brother had recently been
in a motorcycle accident. As we approached his house he invited us in. His was
a family of farmers and he outlined their property for us and what crops were
being grown. Corn was drying in the sun outside the front door. Recently picked
beans and cauliflower piled on the right.
He was clearly proud of his home and gave us the tour. We
climbed a ladder to see upstairs where the rice and potatoes were being stored,
and his room. When we came back down we were ushered into another bedroom,
where his mother brought us tea. We talked politics. He translated for his
mother. They were royalists and proudly hung a picture of the deposed king next
to what must have been portraits of his parents taken around the time they were
wed. It was interesting to hear him describe
how much better off they felt they were under the king. There is such a
diversity of interpretations about the political system in Nepal, even among
people one might suspect would be similarly politically inclined. Everyone has
an opinion though. Even kids have their own ideas that don’t necessarily
reflect those of their parents.
Upon finishing our tea our new young friend offered to act
as our guide up to the monastery. We happily accepted. Being from the area, and
having made this trip on countless occasions he knew all the shortcuts. I’ve
never met a shortcut in Nepal that didn’t include a nearly vertical climb, and
this was no exception. The hike was beautiful though. Layers and layers of
terraced crops. Some lay fallow after the rice harvest. The brown earth of the rice fields contrasted
with the bright yellow mustard crops. The trail was littered with the
over-ripened castoffs of the persimmon and orange trees that shaded the path.
The Himalayas peaked up out of pine forests around the bends. We passed squash
blossoms and medicinal plants whose names I no longer recall. Around one corner
we came across a woman squatting on her front porch grinding corn. Back and
forth, back and forth. Without stopping her task she pointed to her persimmon
tree and encouraged us to climb up for some fruit. We partook. The ceaseless hospitality I’ve
encountered in Nepal can be overwhelming in the best of ways. Not like anything
I have experienced elsewhere.
We finally made it to the base of the monastery. A large
stone marked where the monks are cremated. Their ashes picked up and spread by
the thousands of prayer flags that surround.
Busloads of Nepali families sat around enjoying picnics and dance
music. I’ve learned a picnic is not a
quiet affair in Nepal.
Unable to find a bus that wasn’t already tipping over with
passengers on the roofs, we ended up hiking down much of the trail on our way
back. We bid farewell to our friend when we passed his house and continued on
to a junction where we could catch a bus down to Dulakhil. The day had turned
out to be more special and perfect than we could have imagined.
Two buses later (with one very confused driver who was
unconvinced we knew where we were going, and struggled with understanding why
two foreigners were on the local bus) we made it back to our hotel. There was
no party that night, and we ate a delicious meal of the local chicken thali
plate.
At that point we would have stayed an extra day, but an
impending bandha forced us to head home on Sunday. Confused by our experience
with our hotel and the rave reviews we had read, we decided to recheck
Tripadvisor. It suddenly became clear to us that the reviews we had read were
written by the hotel and not an impartial third party. Screen name
“This-Dulakhil-Hotel-Rocks” was just a tad too enthusiastic. Other reviews were
from foreigners who had the odd grammatical particularities of a Nepali not
fluent in English. In addition, none of
the reviewers had written any others.
While trying not to sound hyperbolic, it is hard to truly describe
the depth of physical and emotional pain we had been going through as a result
of our living situation in Kathmandu. Especially difficult was trying to
understand how someplace we had loved to dearly as a home had turned into a
loathsome construction site that was no longer a comfortable place to call
home. In any case, despite the false
hotel advertisements, and the circumstances that led us to flee the valley, the
experience was one I will long treasure. It never ceases to amaze me how a
situation that can lead one to the brink of insanity and meltdown can be a
prelude and precursor to an unforeseeable perfect memory.
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