Tuesday, Jul 8, 2008
Jeff Greenwald finds gossip, chickens and sex in an excursion off the beaten track near Kathmandu.
Feb 26, 1998 | "It doesn't matter about the trucks, spewing their plumes of black exhaust up the steep incline of Lazimpat," I wrote when I arrived back in Nepal a month ago. "It doesn't matter about the trash heaps piled like purgatorial snow mounds along bustling Dilibazar, or the crush of taxis and auto-rickshaws and motorcycles on the road leading past my corner Ganesh shrine to the Bhatbhateni Supermarket. The dogs howling at night, the long-dead rats flat as papyrus in the roadsides, the perpetual scum of green algae carpeting Snake Lake ... These things matter not at all. All that matters is that I'm home, back in my beloved Kathmandu, snug in this howling silly and sometimes fantastic Buddha-realm -- deep in my diesel heaven."
So I wrote; but then I somehow lost it. My affection for this place, my home-away-from-home since 1979, went the way of my car keys, or a mislaid sock.
I know it's around someplace. I've caught glimpses of it: gap-toothed kids rolling metal hoops past the taxi stand near my neighborhood Ganesh shrine; throngs of shoppers backlit by the low afternoon sun as they press through Asan bazaar; mysterious ripples radiating across the surface of Snake Lake. It might even be right here, at Mike's Breakfast, where the waiters (I'm the only customer) fan out through the courtyard and methodically shake the trees. (The gardener follows with a short straw broom, sweeping the fallen leaves into a pile. It always amazes me, how people here can sweep leaves across a grassy lawn; I've tried it, entirely without success.)
I find a taste of the old kingdom on Page 2 of the Kathmandu Post, in a story that recalls the gleeful newspaper surfing that Nepal's expat community relished back in the 1980's:
Radio Sagarmatha Temporarily StoppedKATHMANDU -- Radio Sagarmatha, Nepal's first independent broadcasting effort which has been developing the taste of Kathmandu listeners for quality public service broadcasting has temporarily stopped transmission effective Thursday, a press release said. The station was forced to take the drastic action after its transmitter caught fire 35 minutes into the programming on Tuesday.
There are a host of similar headlines: "School Locked Up"; "Telephone Service Inadequate"; "Arnas (i.e., wild buffaloes) Destroy Crops." "The Surkhet District Police office arrested two persons red handed," another story proclaims, "while selling the mutton of a she-goat from local market place."
The papers are fun, but shallow. The fact is that, despite my best intentions, it's getting harder to find the magic and humor in this place. Those were the qualities that seduced me when I first visited two decades ago, and that keep me coming back year after year.
But maybe -- at long last -- the changes have transformed the Kathmandu Valley too drastically. Maybe it's finally crossed the line and become too much like everywhere else. Ten years ago, it was a thrilling challenge to live here; a phone call to the States could take two hours, while shopping for a spiral notepad could take the better part of an afternoon. The most recent rock tape in the cassette shops was "Hotel California." These days, you can spend your mornings posting Wanderlust stories at K@thmandu (aka the Cybermatha Tea House), get Post-It notes at every stationery shop and find CDs of Nepali rave music at the Mandala Book Point. It's a miracle, of course -- the Global Village, and all that crap -- but I miss the old days. I miss living with less. Sometimes I really do.
In the Tibetan Book of the Dead, sound is used as a tool for navigating the Bardo, the chaotic interregnum between death and rebirth. Sitting behind a pot of Nescafe at Mike's Breakfast, I try it. I close my eyes and let the sounds of the neighborhood focus my attention. It's a tough meditation; I find myself confronted by a strangely rhythmic composition, as layered and complex as a Peter Gabriel song.
At first I'm nearly deafened by the birds. Invisible chirping radiates from a thicket of orange trees, from the wooden rafters above the Indigo Gallery, from the mimosas and holly bushes and sal trees. Beneath the birds I hear the restaurant's stereo: Jean-Pierre Rampal and Lily Laskine. The Japanese melodies sail over the rickety tables, drowned out by the buses lumbering up an adjoining lane. Concentration on internal combustion engines opens up a new universe of ambient sound: the locustlike revving of two-stroke motorcycles at the petrol station across the street; the tangle of bicycle bells on the road between; the horns of the taxis twisting around the blind corner near Snake Lake.
Metal doors bang shut. A badam (peanut) seller walks by, shouting. I hear the monotonous twang of a dark-skinned mattress-maker from Matarai, plucking the long, single-stringed instrument he uses for refluffing cotton. As the wind shifts, another layer of sound is excavated from the din: the manic chattering of a hundred kids at the elementary school by Naxal junction. They've started their lunch break; I can make out the thumping of drums, and the galloping click of ping-pong balls against cast cement tables.
The most immediate noises, oddly, reach my attention last: a black cat whining for scraps and the refined voices of two British Embassy officials discussing Prince Charles' upcoming visit. I open my eyes, amazed at the thick woolen sportcoats the Brits are wearing; I'm stripped down to a T-shirt. But their fresh lemon sodas look good, and I wave my hand toward the counter. Suddenly, inexplicably, Nepal is thrilling again. For the moment, at least, I've won it back.
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