October 20: Bat Cave & Beyond

I woke up at 1:00 a.m. and every fifteen minutes thereafter with an increasingly sore throat. Up for good at 6:00, mad at my cold but thrilled with the view from my hotel room. The pointy peak toward the left is Machhapuchhare (a.k.a. Fishtail), which I’m planning to visit up-close in a month.

Wanting to make the most of my unexpected day in Pokhara I perused the guidebooks, but all the walks I chose had warnings: “Not safe for single women.” So I hired a cab to take me around for some exploration — a bargain at $20 for five hours.

My driver, Vishnu, first took me to a bridge over the Seti River gorge into which people throw white garments once worn by their dead loved ones, and where a few people have thrown themselves, to ill effect. An 85-year-old woman there gave Vishnu and me tikas. I was embarrassed because I don’t belong in a tika. Do you know what’s even sillier than a white woman sporting a tika? A white woman who has been wilting in humidity all day so that the tika melts and gathers in the wrinkles on her brow.

While looking into the dense vegetation there on the cliffside, I learned my first Nepali word: makura (accent on the first syllable) which means spider.

We drove through the old bazaar where locals shop, and passed a wedding in progress. You wouldn’t think it’s anything other than a cluster of people in fancy dress, except for the blare off a dozen brass horns out of tune.

Most houses around here have prayer flags hung out front. When they’re strung along a string like a banner, that means a Buddhist lives there, says Vishnu. When sewed end to end, that’s a Hindu household.

We visited Mahendra Cave, named after the recently uncrowned king: a sacred place for Hindus, with little shrines tucked here and there and bells for ringing their prayers Heavenward. As Americans name stalactites for Disney characters, so do Hindus for their many deities. At one point Vishnu shouted back to me, Don’t step on Shiva!

(That second picture, above, is of Vishnu.) Nearby was Bat Cave, with thousands of fat little black tzameros (accent on second syllable) overhead.

We visited a Hindu temple where we were accosted by a Vishnu’s noxious friend, who calls himself a guide. He did me the favor of getting my Stupid Tourist Experience out of the way early in my trip, by demanding way too much money for a service I hadn’t wanted.

My favorite part of the day was visiting Devi Falls, which is similar to Semuc Champey in Guatemala, where a violent river vanishes all of a sudden into a hole in the ground. We walked down fifty steps into another cave nearby, and I thought my lungs would explode on the trip back up. Doesn’t bode well for my trek 12,000 feet higher.

We also visited a Tibetan refugee camp, a relatively upscale place with cinderblock buildings and pretty grounds. In one large room a bunch of women wove beautiful rugs.

One woman was singing a lovely song in Nepali. I asked Vishnu what it meant. “She is asking for a boyfriend.” Every Nepali I’ve talked to here, including Vishnu, has expressed resentment at the Tibetan refugees, saying that the Nepal government is helping them too much, that the Tibetans are already “wealthy” from international aid, and that Tibetans are taking jobs that rightfully belong to Nepalis — echoes of our immigration controversies in the US.

We went to a small village that perches above the Seti River where there was, as usual, a cremation in progress.

Our scheduled stops completed, Vishnu asked me if I wanted to see where he lives. Reticent at first because I am a suspicious person — why would he offer this? — I assented. We drove out of town on ever smaller and funkier roads, finally parking on a narrow dirt-and-rock road from which we followed a little trail between walls. His house is a long narrow shed divided along its length into four rooms, the biggest about 10 x 15 feet. He and his wife and kids live in one, his father in one, and two of his brothers with families in the others. When we arrived, his father — ancient at only 58 and sick with all kinds of things including high blood pressure — was asleep on his bed wearing only shorts. But he soon joined us in the next room, fully dressed including hat. In seconds the room was full with Vishnu, father, brother, brother’s wife and four kids, welcoming and curious about this visitor who had no idea what they were saying. One of the young boys spoke a little English so he translated. The little girl kept dancing around and climbing all over me. I had no intention of bringing my camera out, but when the girl saw it she wanted her picture taken, brandishing something small in her hand. “She wants her picture taken with the SIM card,” her cousin explained. I obliged.

Vishnu taught me one more Nepali word: sapuna (accent on first syllable) meaning a dream. People take them seriously in Nepal, he says. As we said farewell (and I’d given him the gy-matic tip I’m guessing he hoped for) he asked me not to tell his boss (the manager of Hotel Raraa) that he had taken me to meet his family. I complied.

At six I met with my rafting mates (after a terrifying two-block ride on the back of the motorcycle of one of the guides), a lively bunch, none older than my children: 5 Israelis, 7 Brits, 2 Canadians and 7 Nepali staff.

Afterwards I wandered through the market stalls in the dark, past smoky little ceremonial fires built against stone walls, again enduring traffic hazards, fumes, recorded om chants and cries of Namaste, Ma’am. Will you let me try to sell you something? I paid too much money for a barely padded sleeping pad for my trip, bought chocolate, walked half a mile past my hotel just like I did last night, and finally made it back, cursing my lack of navigational skills. One good thing: Pokhara has the fastest Internet speeds in all of Nepal.

2 comments

  1. It’s kind of crazy how these are posted retroactively.

    Even though I know you’re back in California, it feels like your…like..totally somewhere else!

    p.s. – Did you join the girl in singing the boyfriend song?

  2. Did you know that Vishnu Schist is the name of the oldest rocks at the very bottom of the Grand Canyon? The schist is dark and mysterious–squeezed and cooked beyond all recognition. Your stories are rich with your Ginna-flavored deprecations. What are those rock/brick-looking things on the corrugated roofs? Are they the Nepalese equivalent of roofing nails? Holding down the sheets of roofing material? Or like clothespins, design to hold down laundry on the roof????

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