October 18, 2008 (aka Kartik 2, 2065)


The noise here is like New York here, except louder and with roosters. I didn’t mean to wake up at 4:00 a.m. At 6:00 I called to request my customary (well, the custom started last night) Nepali milk tea, but they couldn’t bring it to me because I’m lodged in the low-rent part of the hotel across the alley.

The headline in today’s Kathmandu Times is Man Kills Wife Over Facebook Status and, only slightly less prominently, Paris Hilton Hangs Out with Princes.

At 11:00 Bhim arrived, courtesy of Thakur, to walk me around town and get some errands done: buy rupees, get my bus ticket to Pokhara for tomorrow, and try to fix Cheryl’s cell phone. I realized early on that the last errand was futile because her battery is dead-dead, but Bhim was determined. I tried to keep up with him as he slid like silicone between rickshaws and motorcyles and taxis and buses, but I didn’t do so well, causing some squealing of brakes and much horn-blowing. When he reached a giant street with about forty threads of traffic, I had a moment of panic: Don’t leave me! Technically, I think vehicles drive on the left of the road, but you’d never know that by looking.

Remember last month when my brand new polarizing filter fell off my camera and shattered on the rocks? Guess what happened on the streets of Kathmandu. We added Superglue to our to-do list. Finally found some but when I got it home I found it had hardened in the tube.

I love some of the t-shirts Nepalis wear: those with confused English slogans. My favorite so far has a photo of a winged helmet emblazoned wiht “US Marines” and the tagline, Made in Cowboy. I hope to find some interesting ones to bring home as presents.

If I hear another Om Mani Peme Hung (that’s the Tibetan version) I fear I will go berserk. It’s piped into about every fourth stall throughout the tourist district of Thamel and beyond, and it’s all exactly the same recording. So when you go along you just crossfade from one chunk of the chant to the next. But I guess it’s better than what I heard later in the afternoon: those deplorable Swedes.

After Bhim left I did a little solo exploring. The air here is so foul that even some locals wear facemasks. I’ll let Cheryl tell you the rest.

People will try to sell you things. I haven’t warned you about the beggars. There are crippled guys and lepers. I try to remember to keep small bills and coins in my pockets so I can give them some. I do not give money to the street kids. There are good organizations here working with them and giving them money just undercuts their work. It’s heartbreaking, but save your money. There are also mothers with babies and old people. It’s up to you…

I went to some Italian restaurant for an early dinner where the featured cocktail was called the “Orgasm,” a blend of Cointreau and Bailey’s with crushed ice. I didn’t order it. I looked out the window at a quaint and picturesque rickshaw driver, dignified-looking despite unmatched shoes and dirty clothes. At the exact moment that I brought the first bite of lasagna to my mouth, he did a full-on air-blow of his nose.

Shortly thereafter I took one of my Ambien and dreamed that my father came back from the dead, as he is wont to do in my dreams, and told me that he’s really happy I’m on this trip.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *