Bhaktapur-- Not just another tourist toilet

I Iawoke this morning, at 7 am which is far too early, to the sound of 300 children doing Karate exercises in the courtyard adjacent my hotel and I knew I had to escape Kathmandu for the day. This isn't to say that I got up right then.

At 10 am I glanced over at Dave in the neighboring bed, and he appeared to be stirring, so I asked if he wanted to visit the 500 year old, reputedly beautiful former capital of Nepal, Bhaktapur, in what would promise to be an enlightening and enjoyable escape from the tumult of this crowded, polluted and noisy city which I was tiring of quickly. "Only if you buy breakfast" he said, and I agreed.

As members of the prevailing culture of world domination and imperialism, we elected to take a cab, an expense of over 20 dollars which would severely limit our beer intake later, but at least it would ensure that we would get there today, versus the bus-rickshaw-foot combination that had saved us so much money while being touristy elsewhere. As we drove through Kathmandu I made a point to be mindful and notice all of the things that would look out of place in the US, even though by now I was used to them and otherwise wouldn’t notice.

I saw in the dirty street pans of radishes held by 3 foot strings tied to a pole which sat across a man’s trapezius so that he looked like Christ selling wares. Motorcycles parked in lines shelter sleeping dogs lounging in the shade all day so they can wake up at 2 am and begin barking until 6. Tuk-tuks ( a sort of 3 wheeled contraption much more efficient than a car) mingle into traffic alongside people, bikes, underpowered “motorcycles”, busses, and the occasional cud-chewing cow by the same inexplicable power that causes the glaciers to flow into the rivers to flow into the polluted steams that line the roadway from which small children drink, strengthening their immune system. A bearded old man hobbles with a crutch in one hand and a cane in the other while passing a Buddhist protest which has closed down the road upon which we travel and we make an exciting swerve across traffic to enter a previously invisible alleyway, no doubt made in the time before cars plagued the cobblestones, and our driver pauses to reach out the window and bend the mirrors inward so they will not scrape the walls as we pass through this narrow corridor to a secret lost city in the mountains.

Well, not exactly "secret" though secret enough that there are minimal people, as compared to the crowded streets of Kathmandu. Cars are not allowed inside the city to minimize pollution which damages the various stone etchings and things which the Ministry of Tourism tries to preserve. At the end of the tight labyrinthine alleyways, our taxi driver has to stop as he can drive no further, and we walk up to the gate where we attempt to tell an elaborate lie to avoid paying the ten dollars entry fee. Neither Dave nor myself are good liars or charming enough to get past the guards, so we pay, grudgingly muttering “this better be good.”

And it is. I can breathe. The incessant noises of hawkers and cars honking that seem to dominate the street in Kathmandu are gone. My whole body and mind ease into a more relaxed state, as if with a good massage (minus the “pucking”). I lose myself in admiring the details of the stone lions that are the sentinels at the entry to the national museum, which is closed for some reason. I walk up the steep steps of the pagoda-like structure in the middle of the square, now empty of people, and admire the carvings in the awning which display and endless assortment of contortionists engaged in various sexual acts. I guess at the inclinations of the builders of this city, which ranges in age from 300 to 700 years old, and I suppose that this was not a “repressed” culture, or one that balked for any length of time about imitating the sexual styles of various animals.

I have always been confused however, about the strange interplay between Buddhism and Hinduism that one can observe in Kathmandu. The tour brochure boasts that Hindu and Buddhist culture has “drawn inspirations on each other through the aged” but this doesn’t explain it. Despite the fact that Buddhism came out of a Hindu tradition, this seems like little reason why they could coexist in one place. The same could be said for Christianity and Islam, the one religion springing from the loins of the other, but we rarely see them getting along this well. Maybe the “drawn inspirations” qualify as historical revisionism, because judging by the number of formidable statues guarding the gates and the various deities “installed for diving protection” we can guess that they must have feared something, if not religious strife.

We walk past an area identified in the brochure’s nomenclature as “Barahi worthseeing temple” and I notice a small girl playing alone by one of these protector statues. The look on her face conveys the same lonely excitement I seem to be feeling lately, and I decide to photograph her, but as soon as she notices me, the opportunity is over, and she smiles. She smiles and then demands 10 rupees for the photo-op. The kids out here are cute, but they operate a program of smoothly orchestrated extortion. Next, she’ll be demanding chocolate, or pens. For some reason, they all want American pens. “Hello, one pen?!” is a common thing to hear, and my favorite, “hello! I-like-chocolate!” spoken in a quick staccato.

I look over in the general direction of another tourist that we have met and find that street kids have surrounded him, and a showdown ensues. As he tries to look penniless, the children encircle him and give him a giant hug, which to him seems “sweet” until he realizes that all of those little hands are probing places they shouldn’t be and then his attention turns to his missing rupees and the children flee. He shakes an angry fist as the children run away to target the next tourist who wears a necklace of orange flowers, a sure sign that someone has just arrived from elsewhere. These bright orange wreaths are given to many as a blessing at the airport, but really they’re for profiling purposes only, serving to help locals identify the weak and unaccustomed.

We wander over to another ancient looking building and peer through a small opening in the façade to find a garden within, an oasis away from the merchants and the cute but ruthless street urchins. We duck through the 3 foot-tall doorway to find a restaurant where we order tea and lunch. We share a dish of spicy chicken tikka after noticing that the menu contained many hilarious other items including “Aloo Govi Masala—potato and cauliflour, malaria.” The server seems upset that there are not more customers; the secrecy of his little restaurant and the 3 foot doorway are the obvious source of his woes. He asks us if we would like anything else, and as Dave is attempting to speak Nepali, Dave order a cigarette, specifying “Marlboro.” We gossip about Yoav, a mutual friend of ours, while we wait a long time for Dave’s Marlboro. When we decide to say “fuck it” and leave, the waiter brings out a plate of “Momo” (a Tibetan friend dumpling) and smiles like “here’s your Marlboro!” Dave’s Nepali is maybe not as good as he thought, but I give him credit for trying.

We depart the restaurant garden and move to another open courtyard. School children parade by, dressed in uniform, their teacher pausing to explain the details of history and conquest that don’t really tell the children what they want to know which is probably something like “what is that man in the carving doing to that woman in the carving?” That is, if these students are anything like me.

I see the girl who extorted 10 rupees earlier getting her hair combed by an older girl who might be her sister. She smiles and waves to me enthusiastically, and I think “hey, maybe I’m special!” Maybe I’m the only one who bought the photo rights to her visage today. As I walk away in search of Dave who is filming the temple in the fading light, I feel a tug on her pantleg and it’s the girl, demanding “one caramelo?” I give her a coughdrop, but it’s not what she expected and she scowls and runs away.

At 4 pm, the light starts to fade and recede over the faces of the statues and we decide to rendezvous with our taxi driver who greets us at the gate. We get in the car and drive away and I watch out the window as before, noticing that the traffic has died down as compared with the afternoon, and the street activity is subdued. A barefoot child strides confidently down the street holding at his waist the surplus folds of his sweatpants which would otherwise reach below his ankles. His mom probably assured him he would grow into them. A man polishes a statue of the old king who died in 2001 along with the rest of his family at the hands of the prince, angry at his parents’ refusal to allow him to marry his true love. Clotheslines fly colorful saris like prayer flags in the breeze as the sun dips below the mountains. A mangy dog bares his white skin through which bones protrude like the structural edifice of a new utilitarian communist building that we pass, as our driver mutters that it’s the new ministry of so-and-so. I feel my attitude start to change as the car dips once again into the Kathmandu Valley.

The drivers drops us off at the hotel and I get out only to receive a loud and sustained honk from a passing motorist. Startled, I turn and kick his bumper as he passes. Dave ambles off to meet our friends for dinner and I walk back toward the hotel alone, contemplating the poignant fragility of my happiness. It's fleeting, like beauty itself. Like the smile of the little girl can be so quickly replaced with a scowl, I must trust that there will grow there a smile once more.