Some old musings from Andy
Please sir, can I have some more? I know you want to, you are such a tease.
"Not my circus, not my monkeys" - KiR
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I don't know if anyone's still reading them until i get some feedback.kinard wrote:Please sir, can I have some more? I know you want to, you are such a tease.
Okay, I'll dig some out later today; well, as soon as i can. Microsoft have just caught up with me and pulled down my Jolly Roger
Which is to say, my pirate Windows 7 is fucked - need to buy a legit copy
I came, I argued, I'm out
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Had to leave this thread for a few days, partly due to the issues in and maintenance of the other thread I've since created, and partly due to the journal being locked up in a broken computer. Okay, so we're back - anyone still following?
Next Kathmandu entry was a bit trivial (mostly about my kids), so here's just one paragraph:
Next Kathmandu entry was a bit trivial (mostly about my kids), so here's just one paragraph:
How has it taken me
nine months to twig that Nepali women do the most
totally amazing thing with their eyes when they're
flirting? I must have assumed it was something
particular to a few individuals until the numbers
passed a point where it dawned on me it's a cultural
phenomenon. I've never seen a western woman doing this
thing – maybe no one ever flirted with me but then I
never saw it on TV either, and I'm telling you, if I
had I'd have remembered. So what do they do? Well I
couldn't possibly do justice by attempting a
description so I'll just have to leave it as an
enigma. What I will say is that I'm putty for three to
four hours afterwards. I'll also recommend that it's
worth risking your neck in a war-zone just to come and
witness it for yourself. Plus they throw in some
corking hand gestures. I'm still totally not
interested in women mind, not even the tasty neighbour
I caught padding her bra as she smiled at me after
bathing this morning – now that shocked me, never mind
war and abject poverty; I just thought you ought to
know about this.
I came, I argued, I'm out
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61. Booze and Blessings
7 Oct 2003
I sent the last report on Friday. Saturday was a day
of waiting, waiting, waiting for a series of people to
come who didn't come and I got bit bored and sunk into
a slight anti-social mentality. So on Sunday I
thought, 'I don't want a repeat' so I decided not to
depend on others and did my own thing. I'd been
increasingly craving some personal space anyway and
it's so hard to get in this society. In fact whilst I
was gone many many people were looking for me, wanting
me to come to their house, so I had to pay for my sins
the next morning – instant karma.
Actually I'm coming to see more fully what it means to
be in a society where communication is so difficult.
You know that within living memory Nepal was a nation
completely closed off to the outside world, without
any roads and comprising villages separated by rivers,
hills and mountains. I kind of assumed that people
simply made the most of the restrictions and got by.
But I'm thinking now that maybe they didn't 'get by'.
Certainly now conditions are better in the city, but
for most still extremely restrictive, and it takes
longer to take the rivers, hills and mountains out of
the people. I get annoyed with Santosh because I feel
his failure to communicate is quite unnecessary, but
maybe what I deem to be common sense in this regard
just isn't in his genes. But in addition I see that
amongst Nepali people inability to get messages to
each other does cause huge problems. Whether the
problems of non-communication be due to psychological
or practical reasons they are a major reason why the
society as a whole functions so ineffectively.
Sunday was Dasain. I figured I'd take it easy and rise
and go to Pashupati at 8 a.m. after an easy morning,
on my own, taking time to do things my way. First as I
wandered through Boudha I came across a crowd around a
man and his assistant poking around in a bloke's mouth
in front of a banner proclaiming teeth can be made
brand new, like they do in Amerika, instantly and for
only a few rupees. I'm meaning to go for a check-up as
I haven't visited a dentist for some years but this
seemed a wonderful pain-free opportunity to get
instantly perfect teeth so I volunteered. He looked at
me and refused; my mistake being to speak Nepali. His
magical medical elixirs are only available to
westerners - us poor brown-skinned mugs have to make
do with quacks. Ain't it always the way?
By 8 the temple was so quiet and almost deserted;
barely 10,000 there. Even with the late start when I
come home, by 9.30 a.m. the day is finished and I get
a bit bored, so I thought I'd go to Thamel get a
couple of CDs – shopping therapy. Normally I get any
bus as they all go to the city then I walk, no
problem. This time however I managed to board the
wrong bus. It got onto the ring road (or 'Wheel Path'
as it translates here) on the outskirts of the city
and just carried on, miles from anywhere familiar. I
actually inadvertently ended up in Patan. Patan is a
very ancient beautiful old city, originally a separate
kingdom but now effectively incorporated into
Kathmandu, but still largely 'off the beaten track'
for tourists and thus the city centre of ancient and
medieval palaces and temples is still a largely living
culture. I had no intention of doing any shopping
there as it wasn't where I meant to wind up, but I had
been on the look-out for some thangkas to complete my
shrine and both Thamel and Boudha have the inflated
tourist prices. So I happened upon this little shop
selling beautiful locally hand-painted thangkas – i.e.
hand-painted Buddhist art. The shopkeeper didn't seem
to put up much of a fight so I thought I got a thangka
of The Wheel Of Life and a very old one of Guru
Rinpoche for an excellent price.
Then the shopkeeper and I got talking. She told me how
they were lucky to get two customers per week since
slaughter of king and his family. Her husband was sick
and they'd had to close for three months. Now she's
re-opened the shop during the holiday but actually
she's a teacher in a local Nepali Buddhist school. Yet
another story – I have so many – of people's financial
situation sinking into desperation. Ved very kindly
shut up the shop for the afternoon to show me round
Patan, so I got another insider's experience rather
than a tourist show. The first temple was the 'golden
Temple', the biggest Buddhist temple in Patan, where
all the statues are gold. The previous day should have
been the finish of the animal sacrifices for Dasain
but I got to this beautiful old temple just in time to
see a herd of buffalo slaughtered, all in keeping with
the Newari saying for the two days of sacrifice, "The
more you kill the more you gain." As the corpses were
dragged past me entrails and shit spewed out over my
feet; you can't say the meat's not fresh here. We then
visited many other temples forbidden to tourists
including tantric ones I was told were 'very
dangerous'.
I continue to be impressed with the Hindu / Buddhist
fusion here. In the morning at Pashupati I saw fully
life-ordained Tibetan monks at the Hindu temple. Ved
Kumari Sakya is a member of the Sakya clan – the
actual literal family of Buddha, a Buddhist clan who
gives a girl-child to be a Hindu goddess. The Kumari
is a goddess locked in an ancient palace until
menstruation at which point she reverts to being an
ordinary girl and they find another. She, Ved Kumari
Sakya, a devout Buddhist from a family dating back
thousands of years in unbroken lineage, worships at
the many stunning Buddhist temples in Patan, but also
worships the Hindu gods in Hindu temples. I very like.
A place where I stopped off to eat had a painting of
Kathmandu's premier landmark, the stupa at
Swayambhunath and I noticed one of the two famous
temples had been clumsily greyed out. Also known as
the Monkey Temple, Swayambu is a smaller stupa than
the one at Boudha but it commands a wonderful position
on a hill overlooking the western entrance to the
city. Whereas Boudha has become the focus for Tibetan
exiles Swayambu is the focus for Newari/Nepali
Buddhism. If you ever see any image of Nepal you will
see either Sagarmatha (Everest to you) or Swayambu
with its All-Seeing Eyes bedecked stupa and flanked by
two tall towering temples. But it's not like that now
– a few weeks ago a fire gutted the inside of one of
the temples and more recently it collapsed. This is
such a tragedy for a World Heritage Site and most
famous man-made landmark. I mean, it's like Wembley
without one of its twin towers, or half a World Trade
Center. Ah. Anyway I mention this only to throw in a
distinctly Nepali dimension; the temple contained many
priceless artefacts – presumably. The door was locked
centuries ago and nobody had been in it since or had
made a list of the contents. As far as I can tell
there was no mystical reason for not entering the
temple, it's just that nobody ever did. Can it be
considered a great loss to have such precious items
destroyed if no one knows what they were?
I finally made it to Thamel and when I emerged I
walked into a massive military presence. Walking on
towards the Narayanhiti, or Royal Palace I soon
realised that with all the detours in operation and
the large crowd (all men – the women are too busy to
hang around for hours) that had gathered that the king
was about to make a festive appearance. There was no
transport to be had so I decided to do the Nepali
thing whenever a crowd develops – join it, although I
resisted the temptation in such royalist company to
shout out Maoist slogans. The crowd had lined both
pavements and many must have been there for hours as
it seemed to be very advantageous to be near the
junction at the corner of the palace. After a while
the police allowed and then encouraged the men on my
side to cross over and line up in front of the crowd
on the other side. This involved obscuring the view of
those who had been there for hours and so a grumpy
atmosphere developed. I stayed put with some others
until other police came and forced us away. I can tell
you from personal experience now that the policemen's
lathis are very literally sticks, roughly-hewn from
trees, painted black and tipped with metal. I didn't
fancy joining the pushing and shoving opposite so I
wandered down and found myself standing on my own at a
prime location on the junction across from the crowd
who had arrived first. After a while a dalit
(untouchable) family joined me – identifiable by their
dark skin. They were later cleared away by the police
but this time I was passed over, not because I was
foreign – I never spoke, but because my skin is light
enough to be mistaken for Brahmin; the refined
families and dignitaries of the nation could walk past
me without being tainted by my shadow. As half the
nation's military top brass walked past it occurred to
me that I had not been searched and in the midst of
hundreds of armed police and soldiers I could quite
easily lob a grenade to wipe out either what is left
of the monarchy or the Royal Nepal Army leadership
(but not both). I had neither the tools for the job
nor the motivation but if I change my mind I'll know
what to do. After two and a half hours darkness began
to fall and the traffic resumed. I figured that either
the king was going to have to negotiate his way
through bikes and tuk-tuks or he wasn't coming, so I
left. And that's my tale of how I didn't see the king
and didn't assassinate him.
So, on to Monday. I thought I'd be able to sleep until
late on the day after Dasain, and indeed I did laze in
– until 6.30. Just as well I got up as a few minutes
later I was called on by Sunita and Sony. Sunita's
father, our nightwatchman insisted as I ate my evening
meal on Sunday that I come to see the family. I said
I'd be quite busy but he was sure I'd be free to come
at 7 – that's a.m. over here of course (by the way I
learned that he gets home at 5.30 and sleeps until 7
when he gets up for his other job). The girls turned
up just as I was about to tuck into breakfast and my
instincts had developed enough to know to leave it.
Indeed, when I arrived I was given a large plate of
fruit and sweets – a quite generous and sufficient
breakfast. You know by now what's coming, hoina? Each
apple and banana I finished was immediately replaced.
No one else was eating of course. As I finally
exhausted the fruit I was asked if I ate meat; on
replying 'no' I was given a plate of chiura (Newari
food, translated in phrase books as 'beaten rice'),
eggs and chicken. And another plate. By now I was well
stuffed. Then out came the actual meal – daal baat
with vegetable, chutney and lots more chicken. The old
bird was that tough I had to abandon my spoon and
resort to eating properly – with fingers.
There was another element to the meal however – not
the endless procession of neighbourhood women ambling
very slowly past the door (the men are busy with
important matters like gathering on street corners to
gamble, drink and fight) – that's old hat by now; it
was the drink. Sunita's father always comes to the
school around 8.30 -9 p.m. as I'm eating my dinner.
You know Gopal and Kumari are force-feeding me all
this dodgy alcohol every evening in Santosh's absence,
well Sunita's father has clearly assumed (probably
aided by misguidance from a certain couple) that I'm
overly partial to the stuff. The previous night they'd
brought out not chang or tongba but a deadly local
firewater called something like 'nga' and as I wasn't
going to the temple the next day I got pretty
hammered. So I was nursing a slight hangover already
when I found myself at 7.30 the next morning downing a
hair of the dog. One bottle of the local strong beer
would be enough I thought – but then came out the
second bottle and then more of that damned hooch. By 9
a.m. I was out of my tree although put up a very
convincing display of sobriety so you're the only ones
(along with the dozen little lizards looking over my
shoulder) to know the truth.
Now let's reflect more deeply on this – after all I
hate those 'I got so bladdered last night' stories so
this one needs some transformation. On the way over to
Sabitree's home a couple of days ago I was trying to
prepare Richard, a fellow vegetarian, on what was
coming. I'd said that as honoured guests we could
expect meat most times but on this particular festival
it was a certainty. I told him about my position of
eating the meat rather than offending the host. When
we got there he very politely explained that he didn't
want meat and Sabitree smiled and acceded but didn't
understand as was evident when the food was produced.
Richard left his as I struggled to chew my way
through. But of course as I forced every reluctant
mouthful down the morsel was immediately replaced. My
begging to be spared was getting increasingly
desperate with every failure and I was left with the
feeling that Richard's tactic was actually much less
offensive than my desire to accommodate. Maybe it is
better to either eat the meat whole-heartedly when
presented with it, or not at all.
It was also clear at both homes that I was being given
the choicest portions of meat – i.e. the bits that did
have some meat in there somewhere. Also, as I've
described on previous occasions when being invited to
students' homes I'm given so much more to eat than
anyone else when their appetites are so much larger
than mine. In addition, whilst the nga was presumably
as cheap as it tastes the bottled beer is extremely
expensive. When the stuff is bought for you at some
sacrifice what can you do? That's why I'm pleading
innocence your honours. One more insight: my personal
dietary preference is teetotal vegetarian. That, in
theory, is what the Brahmin caste are. Because they
are the elite caste I choose to ensure I don't
associate with them to a degree that is too imbalanced
and thus associate with the lower castes – who are
boozy meat-eaters. I wish Jesus had said a bit more
about what he did when he ate with sinners and tax
collectors.
After spending some five hours with the family and the
neighbours I had to go into town to get cash for my
forthcoming excursion into the jungle, as I stupidly
had not thought to take my cash card when I went the
day before. As Sunita had explained that the rest of
her day would be very boring as her two closest
friends Anita and Rojina were with relatives I
suggested she come with me. We picked up Sony who was
similarly at a loose end in the holiday. Travelling
into town to get cash and not much else is hardly
worth mentioning, except that for these two eleven and
twelve year old girls it was the first time they'd
ever ridden on a bus and the first time they'd been
into the centre of the city in which they live, so for
them it was an adventure. I showed them the street
traders and temples and they read my e-mails in a
cyber cafe but they were most impressed when we passed
a jeweller's and they saw for the first time diamonds
– girls' best friend indeed.
Talking for first times, traditionally at Dasain
people buy and wear new clothes. I'm very heartened to
see some of our children sporting new outfits; in some
cases I know this to be the first time they have ever
had properly new clothes. I'm not sure whether taking
the children into our school has resulted in their
families' living standards rising enough to be able to
afford a roll of cotton to make the clothing, or
whether the parents are learning to take more pride in
their children's appearance but whatever the reason
it's so nice to see.
After the evening meal I had to go to our neighbours
to take tika. I know few of you share my interest in
religion but for cultural understanding I think I
should explain a couple of issues. Firstly it occurs
to me that for those of you for whom 'tika' means
anything you will be envisaging that dainty little red
dot on the forehead of a Hindu, or maybe the little
bindi stick-ons that are becoming fashionable in the
West. Not a bit of it – think rather of foreheads that
look like they have been penetrated by exploding
bullets. My neighbour made up a paste of vermillion
powder and rice with other stuff and liberally
plastered it across our foreheads as he chanted
prayers. He then stuck blades of grass behind our ears
– on the first day of the festival the seeds of a very
quickly growing barley grass are put in ceremonial
pots, and on the tenth day they are harvested. I've
been going around these last two days with loads of
grass sticking out of my ears and petals on my head to
complement the red goo dollopped over my face. And so
has everyone else; when I see all these butch grown
men sporting grass and flowers and nobody bats an eye
because it is utterly normal the second thought comes
to me – when it comes to thinking about the
relationship of Hinduism with western culture the
hippies did for flower power what the Nazis did for
the swastika. The hippies meant well of course, but
then I suppose so did the Nazis. Today, as Western
culture finds itself utterly vacuous, especially in
the fields of music and clothing, and Indian/South
Asian culture is so indescribably tasteful, the time
is ripe for another major invasion of Indian-ness; how
will the West adulterate and obliterate it this time?
So I'm a bit between festivals at the moment. It's two
weeks until Tihar, the five day festival. This one's
all blessings and flowers and no killing; on day one
we worship crows and on day two dogs. the cow gets in
on the morning of the third day before we focus on
goddess Laxmi with lots of little dewa lamps. not sure
what happens on the fourth day, New Year's Day for
Newars (is that five or six new years so far?) but the
biggest day is the last one when sisters worship their
brothers. I'm rather confused by all the invitations
to come and take tika in people's houses on that day –
I keep joking that I'll come when they're feeding the
crows or garlanding and putting tika on the dogs. But
I'm looking forward to it. In the meantime I thought
I'd take an aimless wander. I have a bus ticket to the
border (£1.50 for a 12-hour bus trip – not including
all the army check-points, so I'll probably get there
at the same time I did on the 'smuggler's bus', at 2
a.m.). After that I'll probably visit the Buddha's
birthplace and then who knows – maybe wander into the
tropical jungle and/or up to Pokhara where the
mountains are. I'll make it up as I go along, getting
on wrong busses and what have you. Maybe I'll find a
cyber café that hasn't been flattened by wild
elephants or avalanches but if I'm out of touch for a
while don't assume I've been arrested – it might be
something more mundane like I was eaten by a python or
ambushed by the Maobaadi.
Hmm, the new-look K440 is causing this odd spacing - I ain't got time to re-edit; sorry.
7 Oct 2003
I sent the last report on Friday. Saturday was a day
of waiting, waiting, waiting for a series of people to
come who didn't come and I got bit bored and sunk into
a slight anti-social mentality. So on Sunday I
thought, 'I don't want a repeat' so I decided not to
depend on others and did my own thing. I'd been
increasingly craving some personal space anyway and
it's so hard to get in this society. In fact whilst I
was gone many many people were looking for me, wanting
me to come to their house, so I had to pay for my sins
the next morning – instant karma.
Actually I'm coming to see more fully what it means to
be in a society where communication is so difficult.
You know that within living memory Nepal was a nation
completely closed off to the outside world, without
any roads and comprising villages separated by rivers,
hills and mountains. I kind of assumed that people
simply made the most of the restrictions and got by.
But I'm thinking now that maybe they didn't 'get by'.
Certainly now conditions are better in the city, but
for most still extremely restrictive, and it takes
longer to take the rivers, hills and mountains out of
the people. I get annoyed with Santosh because I feel
his failure to communicate is quite unnecessary, but
maybe what I deem to be common sense in this regard
just isn't in his genes. But in addition I see that
amongst Nepali people inability to get messages to
each other does cause huge problems. Whether the
problems of non-communication be due to psychological
or practical reasons they are a major reason why the
society as a whole functions so ineffectively.
Sunday was Dasain. I figured I'd take it easy and rise
and go to Pashupati at 8 a.m. after an easy morning,
on my own, taking time to do things my way. First as I
wandered through Boudha I came across a crowd around a
man and his assistant poking around in a bloke's mouth
in front of a banner proclaiming teeth can be made
brand new, like they do in Amerika, instantly and for
only a few rupees. I'm meaning to go for a check-up as
I haven't visited a dentist for some years but this
seemed a wonderful pain-free opportunity to get
instantly perfect teeth so I volunteered. He looked at
me and refused; my mistake being to speak Nepali. His
magical medical elixirs are only available to
westerners - us poor brown-skinned mugs have to make
do with quacks. Ain't it always the way?
By 8 the temple was so quiet and almost deserted;
barely 10,000 there. Even with the late start when I
come home, by 9.30 a.m. the day is finished and I get
a bit bored, so I thought I'd go to Thamel get a
couple of CDs – shopping therapy. Normally I get any
bus as they all go to the city then I walk, no
problem. This time however I managed to board the
wrong bus. It got onto the ring road (or 'Wheel Path'
as it translates here) on the outskirts of the city
and just carried on, miles from anywhere familiar. I
actually inadvertently ended up in Patan. Patan is a
very ancient beautiful old city, originally a separate
kingdom but now effectively incorporated into
Kathmandu, but still largely 'off the beaten track'
for tourists and thus the city centre of ancient and
medieval palaces and temples is still a largely living
culture. I had no intention of doing any shopping
there as it wasn't where I meant to wind up, but I had
been on the look-out for some thangkas to complete my
shrine and both Thamel and Boudha have the inflated
tourist prices. So I happened upon this little shop
selling beautiful locally hand-painted thangkas – i.e.
hand-painted Buddhist art. The shopkeeper didn't seem
to put up much of a fight so I thought I got a thangka
of The Wheel Of Life and a very old one of Guru
Rinpoche for an excellent price.
Then the shopkeeper and I got talking. She told me how
they were lucky to get two customers per week since
slaughter of king and his family. Her husband was sick
and they'd had to close for three months. Now she's
re-opened the shop during the holiday but actually
she's a teacher in a local Nepali Buddhist school. Yet
another story – I have so many – of people's financial
situation sinking into desperation. Ved very kindly
shut up the shop for the afternoon to show me round
Patan, so I got another insider's experience rather
than a tourist show. The first temple was the 'golden
Temple', the biggest Buddhist temple in Patan, where
all the statues are gold. The previous day should have
been the finish of the animal sacrifices for Dasain
but I got to this beautiful old temple just in time to
see a herd of buffalo slaughtered, all in keeping with
the Newari saying for the two days of sacrifice, "The
more you kill the more you gain." As the corpses were
dragged past me entrails and shit spewed out over my
feet; you can't say the meat's not fresh here. We then
visited many other temples forbidden to tourists
including tantric ones I was told were 'very
dangerous'.
I continue to be impressed with the Hindu / Buddhist
fusion here. In the morning at Pashupati I saw fully
life-ordained Tibetan monks at the Hindu temple. Ved
Kumari Sakya is a member of the Sakya clan – the
actual literal family of Buddha, a Buddhist clan who
gives a girl-child to be a Hindu goddess. The Kumari
is a goddess locked in an ancient palace until
menstruation at which point she reverts to being an
ordinary girl and they find another. She, Ved Kumari
Sakya, a devout Buddhist from a family dating back
thousands of years in unbroken lineage, worships at
the many stunning Buddhist temples in Patan, but also
worships the Hindu gods in Hindu temples. I very like.
A place where I stopped off to eat had a painting of
Kathmandu's premier landmark, the stupa at
Swayambhunath and I noticed one of the two famous
temples had been clumsily greyed out. Also known as
the Monkey Temple, Swayambu is a smaller stupa than
the one at Boudha but it commands a wonderful position
on a hill overlooking the western entrance to the
city. Whereas Boudha has become the focus for Tibetan
exiles Swayambu is the focus for Newari/Nepali
Buddhism. If you ever see any image of Nepal you will
see either Sagarmatha (Everest to you) or Swayambu
with its All-Seeing Eyes bedecked stupa and flanked by
two tall towering temples. But it's not like that now
– a few weeks ago a fire gutted the inside of one of
the temples and more recently it collapsed. This is
such a tragedy for a World Heritage Site and most
famous man-made landmark. I mean, it's like Wembley
without one of its twin towers, or half a World Trade
Center. Ah. Anyway I mention this only to throw in a
distinctly Nepali dimension; the temple contained many
priceless artefacts – presumably. The door was locked
centuries ago and nobody had been in it since or had
made a list of the contents. As far as I can tell
there was no mystical reason for not entering the
temple, it's just that nobody ever did. Can it be
considered a great loss to have such precious items
destroyed if no one knows what they were?
I finally made it to Thamel and when I emerged I
walked into a massive military presence. Walking on
towards the Narayanhiti, or Royal Palace I soon
realised that with all the detours in operation and
the large crowd (all men – the women are too busy to
hang around for hours) that had gathered that the king
was about to make a festive appearance. There was no
transport to be had so I decided to do the Nepali
thing whenever a crowd develops – join it, although I
resisted the temptation in such royalist company to
shout out Maoist slogans. The crowd had lined both
pavements and many must have been there for hours as
it seemed to be very advantageous to be near the
junction at the corner of the palace. After a while
the police allowed and then encouraged the men on my
side to cross over and line up in front of the crowd
on the other side. This involved obscuring the view of
those who had been there for hours and so a grumpy
atmosphere developed. I stayed put with some others
until other police came and forced us away. I can tell
you from personal experience now that the policemen's
lathis are very literally sticks, roughly-hewn from
trees, painted black and tipped with metal. I didn't
fancy joining the pushing and shoving opposite so I
wandered down and found myself standing on my own at a
prime location on the junction across from the crowd
who had arrived first. After a while a dalit
(untouchable) family joined me – identifiable by their
dark skin. They were later cleared away by the police
but this time I was passed over, not because I was
foreign – I never spoke, but because my skin is light
enough to be mistaken for Brahmin; the refined
families and dignitaries of the nation could walk past
me without being tainted by my shadow. As half the
nation's military top brass walked past it occurred to
me that I had not been searched and in the midst of
hundreds of armed police and soldiers I could quite
easily lob a grenade to wipe out either what is left
of the monarchy or the Royal Nepal Army leadership
(but not both). I had neither the tools for the job
nor the motivation but if I change my mind I'll know
what to do. After two and a half hours darkness began
to fall and the traffic resumed. I figured that either
the king was going to have to negotiate his way
through bikes and tuk-tuks or he wasn't coming, so I
left. And that's my tale of how I didn't see the king
and didn't assassinate him.
So, on to Monday. I thought I'd be able to sleep until
late on the day after Dasain, and indeed I did laze in
– until 6.30. Just as well I got up as a few minutes
later I was called on by Sunita and Sony. Sunita's
father, our nightwatchman insisted as I ate my evening
meal on Sunday that I come to see the family. I said
I'd be quite busy but he was sure I'd be free to come
at 7 – that's a.m. over here of course (by the way I
learned that he gets home at 5.30 and sleeps until 7
when he gets up for his other job). The girls turned
up just as I was about to tuck into breakfast and my
instincts had developed enough to know to leave it.
Indeed, when I arrived I was given a large plate of
fruit and sweets – a quite generous and sufficient
breakfast. You know by now what's coming, hoina? Each
apple and banana I finished was immediately replaced.
No one else was eating of course. As I finally
exhausted the fruit I was asked if I ate meat; on
replying 'no' I was given a plate of chiura (Newari
food, translated in phrase books as 'beaten rice'),
eggs and chicken. And another plate. By now I was well
stuffed. Then out came the actual meal – daal baat
with vegetable, chutney and lots more chicken. The old
bird was that tough I had to abandon my spoon and
resort to eating properly – with fingers.
There was another element to the meal however – not
the endless procession of neighbourhood women ambling
very slowly past the door (the men are busy with
important matters like gathering on street corners to
gamble, drink and fight) – that's old hat by now; it
was the drink. Sunita's father always comes to the
school around 8.30 -9 p.m. as I'm eating my dinner.
You know Gopal and Kumari are force-feeding me all
this dodgy alcohol every evening in Santosh's absence,
well Sunita's father has clearly assumed (probably
aided by misguidance from a certain couple) that I'm
overly partial to the stuff. The previous night they'd
brought out not chang or tongba but a deadly local
firewater called something like 'nga' and as I wasn't
going to the temple the next day I got pretty
hammered. So I was nursing a slight hangover already
when I found myself at 7.30 the next morning downing a
hair of the dog. One bottle of the local strong beer
would be enough I thought – but then came out the
second bottle and then more of that damned hooch. By 9
a.m. I was out of my tree although put up a very
convincing display of sobriety so you're the only ones
(along with the dozen little lizards looking over my
shoulder) to know the truth.
Now let's reflect more deeply on this – after all I
hate those 'I got so bladdered last night' stories so
this one needs some transformation. On the way over to
Sabitree's home a couple of days ago I was trying to
prepare Richard, a fellow vegetarian, on what was
coming. I'd said that as honoured guests we could
expect meat most times but on this particular festival
it was a certainty. I told him about my position of
eating the meat rather than offending the host. When
we got there he very politely explained that he didn't
want meat and Sabitree smiled and acceded but didn't
understand as was evident when the food was produced.
Richard left his as I struggled to chew my way
through. But of course as I forced every reluctant
mouthful down the morsel was immediately replaced. My
begging to be spared was getting increasingly
desperate with every failure and I was left with the
feeling that Richard's tactic was actually much less
offensive than my desire to accommodate. Maybe it is
better to either eat the meat whole-heartedly when
presented with it, or not at all.
It was also clear at both homes that I was being given
the choicest portions of meat – i.e. the bits that did
have some meat in there somewhere. Also, as I've
described on previous occasions when being invited to
students' homes I'm given so much more to eat than
anyone else when their appetites are so much larger
than mine. In addition, whilst the nga was presumably
as cheap as it tastes the bottled beer is extremely
expensive. When the stuff is bought for you at some
sacrifice what can you do? That's why I'm pleading
innocence your honours. One more insight: my personal
dietary preference is teetotal vegetarian. That, in
theory, is what the Brahmin caste are. Because they
are the elite caste I choose to ensure I don't
associate with them to a degree that is too imbalanced
and thus associate with the lower castes – who are
boozy meat-eaters. I wish Jesus had said a bit more
about what he did when he ate with sinners and tax
collectors.
After spending some five hours with the family and the
neighbours I had to go into town to get cash for my
forthcoming excursion into the jungle, as I stupidly
had not thought to take my cash card when I went the
day before. As Sunita had explained that the rest of
her day would be very boring as her two closest
friends Anita and Rojina were with relatives I
suggested she come with me. We picked up Sony who was
similarly at a loose end in the holiday. Travelling
into town to get cash and not much else is hardly
worth mentioning, except that for these two eleven and
twelve year old girls it was the first time they'd
ever ridden on a bus and the first time they'd been
into the centre of the city in which they live, so for
them it was an adventure. I showed them the street
traders and temples and they read my e-mails in a
cyber cafe but they were most impressed when we passed
a jeweller's and they saw for the first time diamonds
– girls' best friend indeed.
Talking for first times, traditionally at Dasain
people buy and wear new clothes. I'm very heartened to
see some of our children sporting new outfits; in some
cases I know this to be the first time they have ever
had properly new clothes. I'm not sure whether taking
the children into our school has resulted in their
families' living standards rising enough to be able to
afford a roll of cotton to make the clothing, or
whether the parents are learning to take more pride in
their children's appearance but whatever the reason
it's so nice to see.
After the evening meal I had to go to our neighbours
to take tika. I know few of you share my interest in
religion but for cultural understanding I think I
should explain a couple of issues. Firstly it occurs
to me that for those of you for whom 'tika' means
anything you will be envisaging that dainty little red
dot on the forehead of a Hindu, or maybe the little
bindi stick-ons that are becoming fashionable in the
West. Not a bit of it – think rather of foreheads that
look like they have been penetrated by exploding
bullets. My neighbour made up a paste of vermillion
powder and rice with other stuff and liberally
plastered it across our foreheads as he chanted
prayers. He then stuck blades of grass behind our ears
– on the first day of the festival the seeds of a very
quickly growing barley grass are put in ceremonial
pots, and on the tenth day they are harvested. I've
been going around these last two days with loads of
grass sticking out of my ears and petals on my head to
complement the red goo dollopped over my face. And so
has everyone else; when I see all these butch grown
men sporting grass and flowers and nobody bats an eye
because it is utterly normal the second thought comes
to me – when it comes to thinking about the
relationship of Hinduism with western culture the
hippies did for flower power what the Nazis did for
the swastika. The hippies meant well of course, but
then I suppose so did the Nazis. Today, as Western
culture finds itself utterly vacuous, especially in
the fields of music and clothing, and Indian/South
Asian culture is so indescribably tasteful, the time
is ripe for another major invasion of Indian-ness; how
will the West adulterate and obliterate it this time?
So I'm a bit between festivals at the moment. It's two
weeks until Tihar, the five day festival. This one's
all blessings and flowers and no killing; on day one
we worship crows and on day two dogs. the cow gets in
on the morning of the third day before we focus on
goddess Laxmi with lots of little dewa lamps. not sure
what happens on the fourth day, New Year's Day for
Newars (is that five or six new years so far?) but the
biggest day is the last one when sisters worship their
brothers. I'm rather confused by all the invitations
to come and take tika in people's houses on that day –
I keep joking that I'll come when they're feeding the
crows or garlanding and putting tika on the dogs. But
I'm looking forward to it. In the meantime I thought
I'd take an aimless wander. I have a bus ticket to the
border (£1.50 for a 12-hour bus trip – not including
all the army check-points, so I'll probably get there
at the same time I did on the 'smuggler's bus', at 2
a.m.). After that I'll probably visit the Buddha's
birthplace and then who knows – maybe wander into the
tropical jungle and/or up to Pokhara where the
mountains are. I'll make it up as I go along, getting
on wrong busses and what have you. Maybe I'll find a
cyber café that hasn't been flattened by wild
elephants or avalanches but if I'm out of touch for a
while don't assume I've been arrested – it might be
something more mundane like I was eaten by a python or
ambushed by the Maobaadi.
Hmm, the new-look K440 is causing this odd spacing - I ain't got time to re-edit; sorry.
I came, I argued, I'm out
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- 20,000 Posts; I need professional help !
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I really like this one.
63. If Paradise Is Half As Nice
16 Oct 2003
So after I sent that last report from Pokhara, what
happened? I spent the next four hours in the centre of
the lake, relaxing under a warm sun, feet dangling in
the cool placid water, enjoying the views of the
mountain peaks although the rest was covered by thick
blankets of fluffy white clouds. It is a universal
truth that all tourists everywhere do the same things
at the same time; by the time I got to the lake they'd
all moved onto the next thing, whatever the next thing
is after going 'wooo' for hours just because the echo
travels across the lake. So I had Phewa Tal to myself,
other than a few old Gurung ladies ferrying the fodder
they'd foraged from the forest.
Apart from the racket emanating from the jungle (birds
and insects) the tranquility was absolute. Shaanti
shaanta. No motorboats, no jet-skis, no white-water
rafts, no yachties or tourists going 'wooo'. I thought
how sad I'd been to be leaving for good my beloved
Scottish lochs, but Phewa Tal excels the best of them
plus after the rains you get a perfect climate and
sacred snow-covered mountains looming, even if they
are mostly in purdah (which means 'curtain' in
Nepali). Like Scottish tourist brochures which don't
mention the midges, so you won't read anywhere that
you don't see these mountains because of the clouds. I
know from the view from my house that if you wait long
enough or get up at dawn you'll get a glimpse; here
the mountains are much closer – walking distance, but
however close a mountain is there's always a
mountain-shaped cloud even closer. I won't bore you
with the technical meteorological details, suffice to
say it's got something to do with mountains. And
clouds.
The water is so clean too – no oil slicks, fishing
tackle, condoms or plastic bags. Women fill their
gagris straight from the lake, you can brush your
teeth in it (well I did), people wash and bathe in the
warm water – you can't do that (safely) in the rivers
in Kathmandu. The boat jetty happens to share a small
ghat with tasty low-caste women who possess only one
sari and choli (blouse) and bathe and wash their
clothes there.
I read, I chilled, I thought, "If this is hedonism I
could cope with it, for a while anyway. It got better
– as the sun set I rowed back to the shore (one
paddle, Hawaii 5-0 style) and wandered into a
salubrious joint that puts on free open-air evening
folk dancing. As much as I hate Disneyfied touristy
productions I made an exception as the dancers were so
good, the girls so gorgeous and the night so balmy
under the bright full moon. the did the dances our
children have learned and I improved my understanding
and appreciation of the nuances of dances from
different tribes and all that and I was having a
brilliant time as it was, but to cap it all I somehow
got picked up by the waitress, so the night didn't
finish when the show ended. To think I'd just written
hours earlier that it was a night for lovers, and to
think that in the space of less than twelve hours I'd
gone from convincing myself I was about to be arrested
and deported, to ….. well quite.
Madhu, aged 33 and possibly the oldest woman in Nepal,
is an exceptionally nice person with an
all-too-typical tale to tell. She hails from a village
near Namche Bazaar which is the launch pad for Everest
expeditions and treks to the base camp, although her
village is four days' hike over a mountain off the
tourist track. In the light of something else I'd
written to you earlier in the day I was interested to
hear how she'd gone against her parents wishes and had
had an inter-caste love marriage – which hadn't worked
out. She's the first Nepali I've met who is actually
divorced (it's always been practised amongst the
Buddhist tribes but is very rare). She was left to
support her two daughters plus her younger brother and
sister through school in Kathmandu, which she managed
by holding down two jobs, working sixteen hours per
day for years to do all this plus save enough money to
fulfil her dream of escaping Nepal and gaining
employment abroad. Last month she gave a fixer who is
her uncle 70,000 rupees who promised to get her a visa
and job in Dubai. You can guess what happened. She
found herself in desperate rent arrears and in deep
debt and had to flee Kathmandu with nothing but two
sets of clothes. She's left her children with a
'sister' in a far corner of Nepal and came to Pokhara
three days before I met her. She's now working from 6
a.m. to 10 p.m. for £16 per month (half our teachers'
salary) and still plans to save enough money to
emigrate to Europe, Amerika or the Middle East. Don't
worry, I shaln't be funding her but I hope that after
such cruel luck things work out for her.
Actually, after seeing each other somewhat
surreptitiously for four days in a culture where
'dating' is simply not done it did occur to me that
with me looking for permanent residence in Nepal and
her wanting to get to somewhere like Britain there is
a mutually beneficial option and much cheaper than the
student visa route, but I don't tell her that. Mind
you I can foresee one problem with this idea – I've
always been allergic to meeting the parents but this
would be no drive down to Oxford to partake of sherry
and fondue. I'd have to fly to the highest airstrip in
the world which is always out of action due to the
weather and Maobaadi. Then I'd have to spend time
acclimatising in Namche Bazaar because we're in acute
altitude sickness terrain here. Then the climb would
commence; she says three to fours days in ideal
weather, but that's local time – how long would it
take a useless couch potato like me? She tells me it's
one day up, one day down and one to two days up again.
The leccy-free village is high up the side of the Arun
Valley which is the deepest valley in the world. When
I did finally arrive they'd probably slaughter a yak
in my honour and force me to eat it. Then they'd hand
over thirty starving kids for me to take back and
educate as part of my new-found family obligation.
Okay I think I've talked myself out of this one.
Two other quick stories: her one sister was living in
her husband's village when the whole village was wiped
out by a landslide. There's no compensation or
insurance scheme in these parts of course, so with
their home and livelihood destroyed the family had to
relocate to the next village and rent land to farm,
and now they too are in deep debt. The nearest school
is three days over the mountains weather permitting,
so the three daughters won't be getting any more
education. You think your family's got problems. The
other story is from one of the waiters working in the
same place. He told me a tale which involved a similar
sting – a promise of a job on an Amerikan cruise
liner. Earlier in the summer he quit a good job in
Pokhara's best restaurant and handed over his life
savings to some conman. When you read about the
British government and its fascist press getting all
worked up about evil illegal immigrants coming to the
UK for an easy life after having given all their
savings to human traffickers to flee appalling
conditions, just spare a thought for those who try to
do things legally and honestly and see what happens to
them. Thus endeth the sermon by your friendly illegal
alien.
So, being a pushover I allowed myself to be persuaded
to stay one more day, just one more day, well four
more days longer than I meant to. The problem was not
that my clothes were utterly rancid - the stench
didn't seem to be cramping my style too much, it was
that my money had run out. By the definitely
definitely final last day I found myself without even
the bus fare to get to Kathmandu and then I agreed to
stay one more day as she'd just negotiated a
three-hour afternoon break. Figured I'd be alright as
I've learned how to blag my way in Nepal. I simply
wouldn't eat and drink only water from the lake, and
I'd get on the bus without buying a ticket and haggle
with the driver – I'd empty out my pockets and show
him I only had half the fare and he'd say okay but
you're on the roof. I've watched the locals do it – no
problem.
By the way, last time I was telling you of the road
over the mountains. An Australian I met told me his
bus had just turned in many hours late as another bus
had gone over the side of the gorge (You thought I was
exaggerating these bus trips?). I checked out his
story in the paper the next day and in the small print
was a mention of a truck being immobilised in the road
by a rock fall and a bus coming too fast round a bend
hitting it and partly skewing off the road but not
actually toppling into the river. There were 33
casualties of whom three were critical. I knew I'd be
alright though; the reason I had no money left was
that I'd spent my last £13 on a gold painted statue of
Tara, the Tibetan saviouress who protects you from
wild animals, storms, landslides and kamikaze bus
drivers (but possibly not one's own stupidity).
Nah, that wheeze never actually happened. I was making
my way to the bus when money rained down form the sky.
Dunno how that happened as the clouds had just
momentarily parted to offer a perfect vista of the
Annapurnas and Machhapuchhre. Okay, one more day then.
Alright, for you dull rationalists the alternative
version is this: I'd read on a website over a year ago
that there is one cash point (ATM) machine in Pokhara
that will take my card but there was no point trying
to track it down in this sprawling city. Madhu wanted
one last rendezvous under a big ol' Bodhi tree a few
minutes away from her work-place and gossipy staff,
and as I waiting I noticed the ATM was right there, in
the tree.
Except it wasn't one more day. I'd already met and
talked to many people while Madhu worked and as this
continued I heard so many stories. Initially
everything looked pretty hunky-dory from the middle of
the lake and in the distraction of moonlit walks, but
then I began to realise how bad things were in
Pokhara. The hotel manager told me that whilst there
were virtually no Maoists in the city the checkpoints
ringing the city deter tourists, but these are
necessary as the Maoists have recently strengthened
their forces in all the surrounding areas. Fierce
fire-fights are breaking out between them and the
security forces in some of the popular trekking areas,
and then there is the 1000 rupee donation trekkers are
asked to pay the Maobaadi. Personally I don't see why
a rich trekker would be turning his pants brown at the
prospect of forking out eight quid, and indeed Richard
told me that the receipt the Maoists issue can be sent
to your insurance company for a full refund. I suppose
it's the fear of something interesting happening to
them that scares them off.
Here's an aside: I had a blinding (or deafening)
revelation whilst enjoying the folk dancing. I am
trying with the Nepali, honest, but I get frustrated
when people refuse to understand what I'm saying just
because I fail to aspirate my 'kh' perfectly and stuff
like that – I mean, I'm close enough aren't I? But
then one of the musicians was introducing a well-known
local folk song about Nepali cookery. I thought this
strange as Nepali cuisine is quite literally nothing
to sing and dance about. Then the guys appeared waving
their big knives – a khukuri song! Since then I've
heard the bloke say the word a hundred times – and I
still can't hear the difference.
Are you keeping up with the sequence of events here?
So I said goodbye to Madhu and went to get the night
bus. However with the resumption of the conflict the
night busses were not running (By the way Santosh has
just told me how his two day journey to his village
became more than four due to check-points and
landslides, and at night the bus had to pull over at
checkpoints and all the smelly sweaty passengers had
to sleep in or on the bus). So I wandered back and the
night was not yet over and it occurred to me I hadn't
seen all the other folk dance groups. You'll never
guess what happened – oh, I see you're ahead of me by
now. This one was called Chandrika and she looked
absolutely stunning in her elegant blue sari. I'd
barely sat down when she rushed over to pour me a
drink, give me her number and insist I call her the
next morning. And I really meant to but unfortunately
after that place closed I went into another one that
stayed open until four, made loads of new best friends
and got so hammered that I slept until the goats
bleating for their lunch woke me. By the time I called
she was back at work. An Englishman abroad, still at
least I don't behave like a tourist, eh?
I spent much of what this time would absolutely
definitely be my last day in the company of the
Tibetan community. I won't mention how many addresses
and proposals I collected but I learnt that life's
very not so good for the thousands of Tibetan in
Pokhara. Dozens of ladies line the roads pleading with
tourists to take a look at their crafts. Nice
jewellery and other things too but nobody buys. So
they talked with me for hours about life in a refugee
community. Now it has occurred to me that whilst none
of these myriad tales I've heard are in any way hammed
up, I can see that once these women realise they not
going to get a sale or tip out of me they don't give
up because they're thinking that marriage would be a
better long-term deal than a quick sale. Everyone
wants something, but I don't begrudge that, I just
wish I could do something to make a real difference
like I'm doing in Kathmandu.
The women are from Tashiling camp which was
established about forty years ago, so they're all born
and bred there. The Tibetans have never been accepted
by the Nepalis into the community even though the
Tibetan community has been in Pokhara since it was a
village, i.e. the Tibetans have seen thousands of
incomers arrive and treat them like they're aliens. I
didn't see a single Tibetan in regular employment in
the city. So they don't feel welcome in Pokhara and
they'll never get to see the home they've never known.
Whilst Tibetan culture is becoming more trendy in the
West and some big bucks end up in a few places, and a
fair few tourists come to Boudha to stay at the gumbas
(monasteries) and spend good money in the shops,
enabling that Tibetan community to become relatively
well-off, in Pokhara they seem to be overlooked and
forgotten. In contrast to Boudha the tourists who come
to Pokhara aren't interested in Tibet, that's why
there's only one Tibetan restaurant in the city, why
the Tibetans own or rent no shops and have to try to
sell their wares hawking in the street, making a sale
a week.
I talked to Nepali thangka painters also – their art
is just amazing and the artists paint in their little
family-run workshops, passing their craft down the
generations, creating their work before your eyes – if
you're patient; the bigger ones takes months to
complete and I was shown one that was nearing
completion after two and a half years. But nobody
buys. The Chinese and Indian tourists don't spend
(actually the Indian tourists are very conspicuous in
Pokhara and distinctive from the Nepali populace –
roaming in large family groups, clearly not bred in
the mountains and not underfed) and the westerners are
there to trek and don't want to lug stuff around in
their knapsacks. They also tend to have little
appreciation of Tibetan or Buddhist culture as they're
only interested in the mountains, not the pesky
people.
I do hope some of you registered the irony implicit in
my title for this report; this is an idyllic place to
relax, yet everyone I've talked to (bar a pair of
happy chappies who were raging drunk) tell me stories
filled with unhappiness and a desperate wish for a
better life. I've only actually related a small
proportion, for instance I didn't mention the
seventeen year old waiter who pleaded with me to take
him into our school as his job and life is such a
dead-end. I noted the absence of the usual smiling
dispositions you find on Nepalis and Tibetans except
when they affect a positivity to try to extract a
sale. Here, in a third world city which exists to
cater to rich western tourists you can't say the local
workers don't know any other life; their faces are
rubbed in affluence hour after hour. I recall that
ancient lyrical masterpiece, the Sex Pistols song
'Holidays in the Sun' which Johnny Rotten prefaced
with "Cheap holidays in other people's misery." The
answer? Take a holiday in a third world country, spend
copiously but come home feeling very guilty – or, more
positively, set up some sponsorships to break the
cycle of misery for some. I've said all along that
whilst the mountains and waters of Nepal are the most
beautiful in the world and that's what draws tourists
to Pokhara it's not why I came to Nepal. The
hedonistic pleasures were getting a bit hollow – it
was time to go home.
Absolutely no more delays now; I just needed a plate
of chips and then to bed for an early night and a 4
a.m. start. So I nipped into the first available place
I came across – yes it did happen to be the same place
as I was in until 4 a.m. that morning but that was
more coincidence than everything else. And yes,
another waitress, another story. I'd been yapping with
the lads the previous night but it was too early for
them so she came and sat next to me. I forget her name
but she's got the best arse in Pokhara so I'd find her
again easy enough if I wanted. She works in this place
until 4 a.m. and is back on duty at 6 a.m. In all,
over 24 hours she gets three hours' break, two to
sleep and one to bathe, change clothes and eat. Sounds
impossible? Hang on; she gets no holidays ever and how
much does she earn working these inhuman conditions?
Nothing. Her brother manages the place; I noted he and
the other staff address her as 'kanchi'. Remember? Not
that she was complaining as she answered my questions
– for her this is an easier life as before she came to
Pokhara she was working on the family farm in the
mountains. She had two years schooling, not getting
past Class 1 (a real person to go with statistics I've
given in the past) when her parents pulled her out to
work the land, but she's pleased to come to Pokhara as
she really doesn't want to marry a village farm boy.
I will admit that I was very enjoying the filthy looks
I was getting from the English Adonis crying alone
into his beer next to us, all the impossibly
good-looking young local lads and the jealous bar
staff. My ego's had the holiday of a lifetime, and yet
I found myself thinking, "This is really great, but
it's just not me." Maybe a year ago I thought my ego
had been decisively laid to rest but I see now that as
Augustine and many others have discovered, the
conflict between higher and lower self never ceases. I
also see that the problem with earthly pleasures is
that they're bloody great, that's why people get so
attached to them. But what disturbs me is that I'm
aware that here in Nepal I possess a certain power
that I don't feel comfortable with and I don't want to
use, either consciously or sub-consciously.
So what did I do? I walked. As I headed back I thought
to myself, "Is there something wrong with me? I'm a
single guy and I'm spurning the advances of a series
of beautiful women. If I'm sick I know I can cure this
quickly with a couple of beers." It also occurred to
me that with people so desperate and vulnerable and
yet so honest and trusting it would be all too easy to
spin some yarn about being an agent for a western
hotel chain recruiting the best and prettiest
waitresses or dancers; you'd rake in the money and
favours (please don't). Pokhara lies in the heart of
an area from which thousands of girls are duped into
the sex industry every year. This is no
mafia-controlled industry with professional baddies;
the pimps and conmen with their false promises are
usually 'uncles' – family members known and trusted
who might just take one or two nieces to Bombay and
thereby ensure that at least his daughters won't
suffer the same fate. So maybe this is my new insight
into what poverty means – it makes good people so
desperate that they'll cling onto any false hope or
promise and leave themselves vulnerable to such easy
abuse.
With all this thinking going on in my head I nearly
failed to realise that I was coming up to the place
where Madhu was still working. I thought it might be a
little indiscrete to let her see me two days after I'd
said I'd gone, but the only possible detours involved
either scaling a sacred mountain or walking across the
lake, so all I could do was divert into some place for
an hour. Oh look I'm not even going to tell you – you
can write the script perfectly well by now.
I did get back to my hotel though, late but
semi-sober, and the mosquitoes kindly woke me up at 4
so I got the bus at last. The mountains were indeed
magnificent in the early morning light. Machhapuchhre
is all a mountain should be, and it and the others are
all utterly vertical – I read that more mountaineers
have died than come back alive from attempting to
scale these peaks. They are impressive indeed but they
were not where my mind could rest. No less impressive
were the old ladies bathing in the streams that are
melt-water from the snows at 6 a.m. The road was quiet
at that time and the journey uneventful. A strolling
minstrel got on board and regaled us with a song
accompanied by a sarangi, Nepal's nation instrument, a
sort of untuned fiddle. I could only understand part
of the song but the chorus' refrain was, "So that's
why I'm very not happy."
One last observation: in the last week I've seen the
two main cities, the Terai plains, the countryside of
the hills and mountains, indeed a sizable
cross-section of the country. Everywhere I saw one
common factor; now it's still my first year here, I
have no background knowledge on these things and I've
read no news reports or statistics but I can tell you
with absolute certainty that we're in for a bumper
rice harvest in the next few days. Living so close to
nature and the earth (did I tell you that Nepal has
the highest proportion of the populace directly
working on the land – 85% as opposed to 2% in the UK –
and that's all mechanised) I see the people working so
hard yet always at the mercy of the vagaries of the
gods. I've written about the natural beauty and power
of the mountains, lakes and rivers, and about floods
and landslides, but the same monsoon rains that bring
such disasters have actually been very kind this
season; Annapurna, the goddess of corn/plenty has
taken pity on her people. This is not an 'event' that
will ever be reported anywhere, but will have a far
more significant effect on the larger scale than
floods or bombs, so whatever news I bring you in the
coming months – and much will be very bad, remember at
least the people have rice to eat this winter.
That’s the good news; but I’ve barely mentioned the
war. It’s definitely back on, although not much
killing in the city as yet. I mentioned above what
problems Santosh had travelling to his village, but
when he finally got there he found that only four out
of thirty of his generation had returned. It seems
that the Dasain festival really has been a totally
damp squib across the country. The Maobaadi who are
vehemently anti-Hindu put out heavy hints that people
should not celebrate the festival at all, and so the
few who did go to their villages for reunions were
scared to have any fun and just stayed indoors. He
said that people were even too scared to play cards in
their houses lest the word got out that they were
gambling – also a Maoist no-no and in the majority of
the countryside where the Maobaadi are the law you
don’t defy. But that’s just the intimidation; it
wouldn’t surprise me if an atrocious incident this
week made the small print of the western press. In the
far west the army burst into a building where a group
of Maoists were holding a meeting and shot everyone.
The building was a school and a number of
schoolchildren were gunned down. Of course you can
draw attention to the cynicism of the Maobaadi for
holding a meeting in such a place at such a time but
they’re supposed to be the bad guys. It’s just the
sort of incident where for each of the thirteen
Maoists killed a fifty new recruits will be lining up
to join.
If this report seems quite disorganised and rambling,
it simply reflects the rather confused nature of my
week. Yet another report in which, if you read it
closely you'll note that I didn't do anything – not
really, but analysed everything.
63. If Paradise Is Half As Nice
16 Oct 2003
So after I sent that last report from Pokhara, what
happened? I spent the next four hours in the centre of
the lake, relaxing under a warm sun, feet dangling in
the cool placid water, enjoying the views of the
mountain peaks although the rest was covered by thick
blankets of fluffy white clouds. It is a universal
truth that all tourists everywhere do the same things
at the same time; by the time I got to the lake they'd
all moved onto the next thing, whatever the next thing
is after going 'wooo' for hours just because the echo
travels across the lake. So I had Phewa Tal to myself,
other than a few old Gurung ladies ferrying the fodder
they'd foraged from the forest.
Apart from the racket emanating from the jungle (birds
and insects) the tranquility was absolute. Shaanti
shaanta. No motorboats, no jet-skis, no white-water
rafts, no yachties or tourists going 'wooo'. I thought
how sad I'd been to be leaving for good my beloved
Scottish lochs, but Phewa Tal excels the best of them
plus after the rains you get a perfect climate and
sacred snow-covered mountains looming, even if they
are mostly in purdah (which means 'curtain' in
Nepali). Like Scottish tourist brochures which don't
mention the midges, so you won't read anywhere that
you don't see these mountains because of the clouds. I
know from the view from my house that if you wait long
enough or get up at dawn you'll get a glimpse; here
the mountains are much closer – walking distance, but
however close a mountain is there's always a
mountain-shaped cloud even closer. I won't bore you
with the technical meteorological details, suffice to
say it's got something to do with mountains. And
clouds.
The water is so clean too – no oil slicks, fishing
tackle, condoms or plastic bags. Women fill their
gagris straight from the lake, you can brush your
teeth in it (well I did), people wash and bathe in the
warm water – you can't do that (safely) in the rivers
in Kathmandu. The boat jetty happens to share a small
ghat with tasty low-caste women who possess only one
sari and choli (blouse) and bathe and wash their
clothes there.
I read, I chilled, I thought, "If this is hedonism I
could cope with it, for a while anyway. It got better
– as the sun set I rowed back to the shore (one
paddle, Hawaii 5-0 style) and wandered into a
salubrious joint that puts on free open-air evening
folk dancing. As much as I hate Disneyfied touristy
productions I made an exception as the dancers were so
good, the girls so gorgeous and the night so balmy
under the bright full moon. the did the dances our
children have learned and I improved my understanding
and appreciation of the nuances of dances from
different tribes and all that and I was having a
brilliant time as it was, but to cap it all I somehow
got picked up by the waitress, so the night didn't
finish when the show ended. To think I'd just written
hours earlier that it was a night for lovers, and to
think that in the space of less than twelve hours I'd
gone from convincing myself I was about to be arrested
and deported, to ….. well quite.
Madhu, aged 33 and possibly the oldest woman in Nepal,
is an exceptionally nice person with an
all-too-typical tale to tell. She hails from a village
near Namche Bazaar which is the launch pad for Everest
expeditions and treks to the base camp, although her
village is four days' hike over a mountain off the
tourist track. In the light of something else I'd
written to you earlier in the day I was interested to
hear how she'd gone against her parents wishes and had
had an inter-caste love marriage – which hadn't worked
out. She's the first Nepali I've met who is actually
divorced (it's always been practised amongst the
Buddhist tribes but is very rare). She was left to
support her two daughters plus her younger brother and
sister through school in Kathmandu, which she managed
by holding down two jobs, working sixteen hours per
day for years to do all this plus save enough money to
fulfil her dream of escaping Nepal and gaining
employment abroad. Last month she gave a fixer who is
her uncle 70,000 rupees who promised to get her a visa
and job in Dubai. You can guess what happened. She
found herself in desperate rent arrears and in deep
debt and had to flee Kathmandu with nothing but two
sets of clothes. She's left her children with a
'sister' in a far corner of Nepal and came to Pokhara
three days before I met her. She's now working from 6
a.m. to 10 p.m. for £16 per month (half our teachers'
salary) and still plans to save enough money to
emigrate to Europe, Amerika or the Middle East. Don't
worry, I shaln't be funding her but I hope that after
such cruel luck things work out for her.
Actually, after seeing each other somewhat
surreptitiously for four days in a culture where
'dating' is simply not done it did occur to me that
with me looking for permanent residence in Nepal and
her wanting to get to somewhere like Britain there is
a mutually beneficial option and much cheaper than the
student visa route, but I don't tell her that. Mind
you I can foresee one problem with this idea – I've
always been allergic to meeting the parents but this
would be no drive down to Oxford to partake of sherry
and fondue. I'd have to fly to the highest airstrip in
the world which is always out of action due to the
weather and Maobaadi. Then I'd have to spend time
acclimatising in Namche Bazaar because we're in acute
altitude sickness terrain here. Then the climb would
commence; she says three to fours days in ideal
weather, but that's local time – how long would it
take a useless couch potato like me? She tells me it's
one day up, one day down and one to two days up again.
The leccy-free village is high up the side of the Arun
Valley which is the deepest valley in the world. When
I did finally arrive they'd probably slaughter a yak
in my honour and force me to eat it. Then they'd hand
over thirty starving kids for me to take back and
educate as part of my new-found family obligation.
Okay I think I've talked myself out of this one.
Two other quick stories: her one sister was living in
her husband's village when the whole village was wiped
out by a landslide. There's no compensation or
insurance scheme in these parts of course, so with
their home and livelihood destroyed the family had to
relocate to the next village and rent land to farm,
and now they too are in deep debt. The nearest school
is three days over the mountains weather permitting,
so the three daughters won't be getting any more
education. You think your family's got problems. The
other story is from one of the waiters working in the
same place. He told me a tale which involved a similar
sting – a promise of a job on an Amerikan cruise
liner. Earlier in the summer he quit a good job in
Pokhara's best restaurant and handed over his life
savings to some conman. When you read about the
British government and its fascist press getting all
worked up about evil illegal immigrants coming to the
UK for an easy life after having given all their
savings to human traffickers to flee appalling
conditions, just spare a thought for those who try to
do things legally and honestly and see what happens to
them. Thus endeth the sermon by your friendly illegal
alien.
So, being a pushover I allowed myself to be persuaded
to stay one more day, just one more day, well four
more days longer than I meant to. The problem was not
that my clothes were utterly rancid - the stench
didn't seem to be cramping my style too much, it was
that my money had run out. By the definitely
definitely final last day I found myself without even
the bus fare to get to Kathmandu and then I agreed to
stay one more day as she'd just negotiated a
three-hour afternoon break. Figured I'd be alright as
I've learned how to blag my way in Nepal. I simply
wouldn't eat and drink only water from the lake, and
I'd get on the bus without buying a ticket and haggle
with the driver – I'd empty out my pockets and show
him I only had half the fare and he'd say okay but
you're on the roof. I've watched the locals do it – no
problem.
By the way, last time I was telling you of the road
over the mountains. An Australian I met told me his
bus had just turned in many hours late as another bus
had gone over the side of the gorge (You thought I was
exaggerating these bus trips?). I checked out his
story in the paper the next day and in the small print
was a mention of a truck being immobilised in the road
by a rock fall and a bus coming too fast round a bend
hitting it and partly skewing off the road but not
actually toppling into the river. There were 33
casualties of whom three were critical. I knew I'd be
alright though; the reason I had no money left was
that I'd spent my last £13 on a gold painted statue of
Tara, the Tibetan saviouress who protects you from
wild animals, storms, landslides and kamikaze bus
drivers (but possibly not one's own stupidity).
Nah, that wheeze never actually happened. I was making
my way to the bus when money rained down form the sky.
Dunno how that happened as the clouds had just
momentarily parted to offer a perfect vista of the
Annapurnas and Machhapuchhre. Okay, one more day then.
Alright, for you dull rationalists the alternative
version is this: I'd read on a website over a year ago
that there is one cash point (ATM) machine in Pokhara
that will take my card but there was no point trying
to track it down in this sprawling city. Madhu wanted
one last rendezvous under a big ol' Bodhi tree a few
minutes away from her work-place and gossipy staff,
and as I waiting I noticed the ATM was right there, in
the tree.
Except it wasn't one more day. I'd already met and
talked to many people while Madhu worked and as this
continued I heard so many stories. Initially
everything looked pretty hunky-dory from the middle of
the lake and in the distraction of moonlit walks, but
then I began to realise how bad things were in
Pokhara. The hotel manager told me that whilst there
were virtually no Maoists in the city the checkpoints
ringing the city deter tourists, but these are
necessary as the Maoists have recently strengthened
their forces in all the surrounding areas. Fierce
fire-fights are breaking out between them and the
security forces in some of the popular trekking areas,
and then there is the 1000 rupee donation trekkers are
asked to pay the Maobaadi. Personally I don't see why
a rich trekker would be turning his pants brown at the
prospect of forking out eight quid, and indeed Richard
told me that the receipt the Maoists issue can be sent
to your insurance company for a full refund. I suppose
it's the fear of something interesting happening to
them that scares them off.
Here's an aside: I had a blinding (or deafening)
revelation whilst enjoying the folk dancing. I am
trying with the Nepali, honest, but I get frustrated
when people refuse to understand what I'm saying just
because I fail to aspirate my 'kh' perfectly and stuff
like that – I mean, I'm close enough aren't I? But
then one of the musicians was introducing a well-known
local folk song about Nepali cookery. I thought this
strange as Nepali cuisine is quite literally nothing
to sing and dance about. Then the guys appeared waving
their big knives – a khukuri song! Since then I've
heard the bloke say the word a hundred times – and I
still can't hear the difference.
Are you keeping up with the sequence of events here?
So I said goodbye to Madhu and went to get the night
bus. However with the resumption of the conflict the
night busses were not running (By the way Santosh has
just told me how his two day journey to his village
became more than four due to check-points and
landslides, and at night the bus had to pull over at
checkpoints and all the smelly sweaty passengers had
to sleep in or on the bus). So I wandered back and the
night was not yet over and it occurred to me I hadn't
seen all the other folk dance groups. You'll never
guess what happened – oh, I see you're ahead of me by
now. This one was called Chandrika and she looked
absolutely stunning in her elegant blue sari. I'd
barely sat down when she rushed over to pour me a
drink, give me her number and insist I call her the
next morning. And I really meant to but unfortunately
after that place closed I went into another one that
stayed open until four, made loads of new best friends
and got so hammered that I slept until the goats
bleating for their lunch woke me. By the time I called
she was back at work. An Englishman abroad, still at
least I don't behave like a tourist, eh?
I spent much of what this time would absolutely
definitely be my last day in the company of the
Tibetan community. I won't mention how many addresses
and proposals I collected but I learnt that life's
very not so good for the thousands of Tibetan in
Pokhara. Dozens of ladies line the roads pleading with
tourists to take a look at their crafts. Nice
jewellery and other things too but nobody buys. So
they talked with me for hours about life in a refugee
community. Now it has occurred to me that whilst none
of these myriad tales I've heard are in any way hammed
up, I can see that once these women realise they not
going to get a sale or tip out of me they don't give
up because they're thinking that marriage would be a
better long-term deal than a quick sale. Everyone
wants something, but I don't begrudge that, I just
wish I could do something to make a real difference
like I'm doing in Kathmandu.
The women are from Tashiling camp which was
established about forty years ago, so they're all born
and bred there. The Tibetans have never been accepted
by the Nepalis into the community even though the
Tibetan community has been in Pokhara since it was a
village, i.e. the Tibetans have seen thousands of
incomers arrive and treat them like they're aliens. I
didn't see a single Tibetan in regular employment in
the city. So they don't feel welcome in Pokhara and
they'll never get to see the home they've never known.
Whilst Tibetan culture is becoming more trendy in the
West and some big bucks end up in a few places, and a
fair few tourists come to Boudha to stay at the gumbas
(monasteries) and spend good money in the shops,
enabling that Tibetan community to become relatively
well-off, in Pokhara they seem to be overlooked and
forgotten. In contrast to Boudha the tourists who come
to Pokhara aren't interested in Tibet, that's why
there's only one Tibetan restaurant in the city, why
the Tibetans own or rent no shops and have to try to
sell their wares hawking in the street, making a sale
a week.
I talked to Nepali thangka painters also – their art
is just amazing and the artists paint in their little
family-run workshops, passing their craft down the
generations, creating their work before your eyes – if
you're patient; the bigger ones takes months to
complete and I was shown one that was nearing
completion after two and a half years. But nobody
buys. The Chinese and Indian tourists don't spend
(actually the Indian tourists are very conspicuous in
Pokhara and distinctive from the Nepali populace –
roaming in large family groups, clearly not bred in
the mountains and not underfed) and the westerners are
there to trek and don't want to lug stuff around in
their knapsacks. They also tend to have little
appreciation of Tibetan or Buddhist culture as they're
only interested in the mountains, not the pesky
people.
I do hope some of you registered the irony implicit in
my title for this report; this is an idyllic place to
relax, yet everyone I've talked to (bar a pair of
happy chappies who were raging drunk) tell me stories
filled with unhappiness and a desperate wish for a
better life. I've only actually related a small
proportion, for instance I didn't mention the
seventeen year old waiter who pleaded with me to take
him into our school as his job and life is such a
dead-end. I noted the absence of the usual smiling
dispositions you find on Nepalis and Tibetans except
when they affect a positivity to try to extract a
sale. Here, in a third world city which exists to
cater to rich western tourists you can't say the local
workers don't know any other life; their faces are
rubbed in affluence hour after hour. I recall that
ancient lyrical masterpiece, the Sex Pistols song
'Holidays in the Sun' which Johnny Rotten prefaced
with "Cheap holidays in other people's misery." The
answer? Take a holiday in a third world country, spend
copiously but come home feeling very guilty – or, more
positively, set up some sponsorships to break the
cycle of misery for some. I've said all along that
whilst the mountains and waters of Nepal are the most
beautiful in the world and that's what draws tourists
to Pokhara it's not why I came to Nepal. The
hedonistic pleasures were getting a bit hollow – it
was time to go home.
Absolutely no more delays now; I just needed a plate
of chips and then to bed for an early night and a 4
a.m. start. So I nipped into the first available place
I came across – yes it did happen to be the same place
as I was in until 4 a.m. that morning but that was
more coincidence than everything else. And yes,
another waitress, another story. I'd been yapping with
the lads the previous night but it was too early for
them so she came and sat next to me. I forget her name
but she's got the best arse in Pokhara so I'd find her
again easy enough if I wanted. She works in this place
until 4 a.m. and is back on duty at 6 a.m. In all,
over 24 hours she gets three hours' break, two to
sleep and one to bathe, change clothes and eat. Sounds
impossible? Hang on; she gets no holidays ever and how
much does she earn working these inhuman conditions?
Nothing. Her brother manages the place; I noted he and
the other staff address her as 'kanchi'. Remember? Not
that she was complaining as she answered my questions
– for her this is an easier life as before she came to
Pokhara she was working on the family farm in the
mountains. She had two years schooling, not getting
past Class 1 (a real person to go with statistics I've
given in the past) when her parents pulled her out to
work the land, but she's pleased to come to Pokhara as
she really doesn't want to marry a village farm boy.
I will admit that I was very enjoying the filthy looks
I was getting from the English Adonis crying alone
into his beer next to us, all the impossibly
good-looking young local lads and the jealous bar
staff. My ego's had the holiday of a lifetime, and yet
I found myself thinking, "This is really great, but
it's just not me." Maybe a year ago I thought my ego
had been decisively laid to rest but I see now that as
Augustine and many others have discovered, the
conflict between higher and lower self never ceases. I
also see that the problem with earthly pleasures is
that they're bloody great, that's why people get so
attached to them. But what disturbs me is that I'm
aware that here in Nepal I possess a certain power
that I don't feel comfortable with and I don't want to
use, either consciously or sub-consciously.
So what did I do? I walked. As I headed back I thought
to myself, "Is there something wrong with me? I'm a
single guy and I'm spurning the advances of a series
of beautiful women. If I'm sick I know I can cure this
quickly with a couple of beers." It also occurred to
me that with people so desperate and vulnerable and
yet so honest and trusting it would be all too easy to
spin some yarn about being an agent for a western
hotel chain recruiting the best and prettiest
waitresses or dancers; you'd rake in the money and
favours (please don't). Pokhara lies in the heart of
an area from which thousands of girls are duped into
the sex industry every year. This is no
mafia-controlled industry with professional baddies;
the pimps and conmen with their false promises are
usually 'uncles' – family members known and trusted
who might just take one or two nieces to Bombay and
thereby ensure that at least his daughters won't
suffer the same fate. So maybe this is my new insight
into what poverty means – it makes good people so
desperate that they'll cling onto any false hope or
promise and leave themselves vulnerable to such easy
abuse.
With all this thinking going on in my head I nearly
failed to realise that I was coming up to the place
where Madhu was still working. I thought it might be a
little indiscrete to let her see me two days after I'd
said I'd gone, but the only possible detours involved
either scaling a sacred mountain or walking across the
lake, so all I could do was divert into some place for
an hour. Oh look I'm not even going to tell you – you
can write the script perfectly well by now.
I did get back to my hotel though, late but
semi-sober, and the mosquitoes kindly woke me up at 4
so I got the bus at last. The mountains were indeed
magnificent in the early morning light. Machhapuchhre
is all a mountain should be, and it and the others are
all utterly vertical – I read that more mountaineers
have died than come back alive from attempting to
scale these peaks. They are impressive indeed but they
were not where my mind could rest. No less impressive
were the old ladies bathing in the streams that are
melt-water from the snows at 6 a.m. The road was quiet
at that time and the journey uneventful. A strolling
minstrel got on board and regaled us with a song
accompanied by a sarangi, Nepal's nation instrument, a
sort of untuned fiddle. I could only understand part
of the song but the chorus' refrain was, "So that's
why I'm very not happy."
One last observation: in the last week I've seen the
two main cities, the Terai plains, the countryside of
the hills and mountains, indeed a sizable
cross-section of the country. Everywhere I saw one
common factor; now it's still my first year here, I
have no background knowledge on these things and I've
read no news reports or statistics but I can tell you
with absolute certainty that we're in for a bumper
rice harvest in the next few days. Living so close to
nature and the earth (did I tell you that Nepal has
the highest proportion of the populace directly
working on the land – 85% as opposed to 2% in the UK –
and that's all mechanised) I see the people working so
hard yet always at the mercy of the vagaries of the
gods. I've written about the natural beauty and power
of the mountains, lakes and rivers, and about floods
and landslides, but the same monsoon rains that bring
such disasters have actually been very kind this
season; Annapurna, the goddess of corn/plenty has
taken pity on her people. This is not an 'event' that
will ever be reported anywhere, but will have a far
more significant effect on the larger scale than
floods or bombs, so whatever news I bring you in the
coming months – and much will be very bad, remember at
least the people have rice to eat this winter.
That’s the good news; but I’ve barely mentioned the
war. It’s definitely back on, although not much
killing in the city as yet. I mentioned above what
problems Santosh had travelling to his village, but
when he finally got there he found that only four out
of thirty of his generation had returned. It seems
that the Dasain festival really has been a totally
damp squib across the country. The Maobaadi who are
vehemently anti-Hindu put out heavy hints that people
should not celebrate the festival at all, and so the
few who did go to their villages for reunions were
scared to have any fun and just stayed indoors. He
said that people were even too scared to play cards in
their houses lest the word got out that they were
gambling – also a Maoist no-no and in the majority of
the countryside where the Maobaadi are the law you
don’t defy. But that’s just the intimidation; it
wouldn’t surprise me if an atrocious incident this
week made the small print of the western press. In the
far west the army burst into a building where a group
of Maoists were holding a meeting and shot everyone.
The building was a school and a number of
schoolchildren were gunned down. Of course you can
draw attention to the cynicism of the Maobaadi for
holding a meeting in such a place at such a time but
they’re supposed to be the bad guys. It’s just the
sort of incident where for each of the thirteen
Maoists killed a fifty new recruits will be lining up
to join.
If this report seems quite disorganised and rambling,
it simply reflects the rather confused nature of my
week. Yet another report in which, if you read it
closely you'll note that I didn't do anything – not
really, but analysed everything.
I came, I argued, I'm out
- John.Sweden
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Andy's Writing a Novel
https://andyswritinganovel.home.blog/
https://andyswritinganovel.home.blog/
No white man hides himself in the wilderness without a reason
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- Joined: Wed Sep 17, 2008 1:12 am
- Location: entering the void
andyinasia wrote: ↑Fri Jul 22, 2011 8:57 amLater on all my money and possessions get stolen, and I end up depending on the beggars of Calcutta for survival. You'll find that pretty damn extreme.nightmare.believer wrote:Did you ever resort to selling your body to get money there when you were down and out? Do you have an entry for that?
Hang on, isn't that bit from Shantaram?