To describe my discombobulation would offer nothing other than a Westerner’s indubitably naïve interpretation of a city and a culture further removed from any place hereforeto traveled. With that in mind, understand I have gladly forsaken logical analysis and wander the streets in childlike abandonment. The Buddhist stupas with their prayer wheels spinning clockwise and the multi-colored prayer flags hung from the center, reaching out and with every breath of wind flipping hopes and desires up to the heavens. The mini Hindu temples on every street corner, ringed by deities including Shiva and Ganesha, their stone figures worn almost away by the constant anointing with vermillion (which is limited not only to statues, but even dogs, too, bear the red dot on their furry foreheads). Children stare up at me, a tall white girl with funny clothes. The brave ones catch my eye and say “Hello! How are you?”; basic English that can only be returned with the question itself and a smile.
The aural penetration of bells ringing, children yelling, music blaring, craft-sellers hawking their wares, acknowledging you with a “Namaste. Where are you from?” so they can negotiate prices in the appropriate tongue, motorcycles and taxis meep-meeping to let you know they are either coming in front of you, behind you, about to make a turn, or most likely that you are in their way and better scoot or risk a side-swipe. Though warned about such disturbances, I find the crows that wake me in the morning to be the most disconcerting, probably because they land right by my window and nag one another until I awake and shoo them away to the closest rooftop
Having yet to begin my internship and in between naps I walk and walk, devouring my map and guidebook before I emerge out into the streets that have no names. I memorize where I am going as everyone here does; the recognition of intersections (chowks) or temples or buildings (an innate sense of direction, too, has bode me well). Roads are narrow and unbelievably fit taxis, bikes and people going in either direction. There are no buildings, other than certain temples, taller than, say, 10 stories. The distinctive wooden edifices are actually Newari style, the original inhabitants of the valley who have their own religion, language and traditions in addition to Nepal’s. I find the craftsmanship of these doorways and windows intoxicating, and will often stop and gape before the inevitable meep meep reminds me I have a life to live and I’d better get out of the road.
The smell of this city, too, is unique in and of itself: incense is burned and candles made of fat drip in their metallic holders around all the temples and stupas. Tiny storefronts with a small gas cookers fry up pakoras and samosas and sal (rice doughnuts), the cyclists with massive baskets of mangos strapped puzzlingly secure on the back of their bicycles, the sack and sacks of spices and sandalwood snaking their wonderful scents up my nasal passages. The sweetly sick smell of freshly butchered goats; the trash that accumulates on streets corners and in back alleyways, denied pickup by the city and smoldering in acrid half-attempt at being burned. I’ve never experienced such a confusing assault on my senses as I have here.
Last week I walked to the UNESCO-designated Durbar Square; the oldest temples in the city. One of the more interesting traditions housed here is that of the goddess Kumari, a young Newari girl of a certain caste who, born under auspicious signs, serves as a kind of oracle or protector until the day she reaches puberty, whereupon she is replaced by a new Kumari. As Durbar Sq. is perhaps the main tourist attraction in Kathmandu, I was snagged by a tout who refused to leave me alone, insisting on explaining the different building and traditions of Hindus and Buddhists through I told him “No Thanks” about 5 times. Though after 20 minutes my refusal of his services went unheeded, I still gave him 250 rupees (approximately 3 dollars, well generous) to which he grew upset and alluded to the bad karma I would be served.
One afternoon I put on my dusty walking shoes and headed west of the city to the famous Swayambhunath, also known as the Monkey Temple. On my way there, a dog approached my with a stumpy hairless tail and a quizzical look on is face; on a street full of strangers I was most definitely the odd one out. As I keep walking, I felt his eyes still on me. Turning for a backward glance, he caught my eye and started howling. I picked up the pace and kept on, but the howling grew louder. Suddenly, all the mutts that had been conked out in the alleys and doorways came to life. Like furry four-legged zombies they staggered out into the streets, and with the information howled to them by their bald butt-ed friend, started barking and trotting after me, much to my concern and the amusement of those watching from the sides. Thanks be to Buddha I was eventually left alone at the temple gate, though I hurried up the steep stone steps with nary another look behind me.
Swayambhunath is one of the most important Buddhist sites in Nepal and a stone inscription dates construction on the site to the 5th century. A once, twice clockwise walk around the stupa adds to the dizzying effect of the sweaty and steep climb, but it is worth it for the breathtaking views of the valley. I watched the storm clouds move over the city, and when they drew near, hurried down the steps on the heels of the infamous (mangy, trash-eating) monkeys and got a short cab-ride back to the hotel just in time for the deluge.
My internship has yet to be finalised, but such is the attitude of Nepalis and the way of life here. Personally interested in issues of identity in the democratic process, I hope to be working with Jagaran Media Center, but this may be altered in time depending on my own research. For now I am quite happy to go with the flow and develop my dharma.
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