Monday, March 31, 2008

Gor-KHA

I decided it was rather imperative for me to diversify my understanding of Nepal through some relatively rural stopovers between the ever so tourist-traveled landmarks of Kathmandu and Pokhara. So in adjoining recommendation with curiosity, I hit Gorkha.


This is the same Gorkha that is affiliated with the Gurkha's, and that which is alluded to in the people of the West Bengal hills pushing for their own province, Gorkhaland. It is also, more or less, a stronghold of the Maoists.

So it all begins with a red salute.


The new part of the hamlet was a few steep streets of shops, where my lack of Nepali seemed to accentuate the relative cold-shoulder I was receiving from the people, which is very possibly a language issue that I, myself, manifested.


But as an old seat of one of Nepal's kings, it's also a historical city, and thus has another fantastic Durbar.



And an array of those charming old city squares with cobblestone alleys.


The street ascension into the surrounding village hills led to staggering views and a rather fantastic temple (no photo), where I waited for over an hour for a chicken sacrifice that never happened. Instead, the chicken shit in its cage which resembled a thatched canoe hand-bag baring holes too big to carry lipstick.

But some good shots of community life and family relations, including an undocumented child play scene where one kid (farmer) swatted another kid (cow) with a stick, as he waddled around, crying, on all fours:




It seems mock Singapore Airlines uniforms are a hot commodity here.


Gorkha's jems tired quickly, though my ubiquitous morning apathy in conjunction with my perpetual indecision left me in Gorkha for two nights - and I was really fucking ready to leave after the second one. One of those places where you seem to stare at your non-rotating fan for long extents of the frequent power outages.


To the people, a last memo: don't forget to vote.

Wednesday, March 26, 2008

A walk in the Kingdom

Departing Thamel, the plates of momos instantly drop from 50 to 20 rupees whilst benefiting from the inclusion of lush peanut-ginger sauce.


Though it should be noted that, the search for "veg" in a world of "buff" grows increasingly challenging as per the increase of neon boar carcases:


Beyond Thamel, the city my comparitive mind began to assemble Kathmandu as such: the modesty of Vientiane tied to the same confused energy that leaves Phnom Penh hanging on an anarchistic cusp. The biggest technological achievement was an escalator, and the prevalence of barb wire competed with that of Delhi's cow shit.


Yes, it's consoling that the streets are quickly overtaken by men pushing forty that are sporting the traditional Nepali topi.


I bought a vest, a term I've now exchanged for the more candid "waist coat". Hail the minute differences in the traditional Nepali pattern that appear on this man's cap:


Durbar Square is a short mooch that oozes with the historical architecture of the Kingdom. It is technically 200 rupees for foreigners to wander amidst - this technicality is disparaged when disclosing to the police that your friend is expecting you at his local chai shop.




These are the same police that tend to giggle benignly as you stoop outside the liquor store while engaging in small talk about their whistle. Though they like to look like they're upholding something:


And so the divided rights that separate Nepalis and foreigners are marked; which I played my part in equalizing by taking my wine to my room and not paying to get into Durbar.


I did however pay 100 rupees to get into the Bodhnath complex, the largest of the numerous Buddhist eyed stoopas that mark all the Nepali postcards not saturated with mountain horizons.


The multiplicity of these white eyed stoopas with golden top hats hide across the city like an array of tupperware containers on a lazy susan. These hidden gems are far more interesting, perched with the authenticity of their daily shuffle:





So Buddhism, and omnipresent Maoist symbols mark themselves like ignorable freckles on the skin of the city.


The civilian shrug of the shoulder in response to these sickles seems to candidly dictate the lack of interest the people have for this fervent political party. A supreme lack of a the red-tape bureaucracy that defines India instead is fronted by an overall political ambivalence, derived surely, from its jaded history.


The Maoists are in support of the upcoming election (April 10), where they claim they will dethrone the King if the result leaves them in power. I don't really think winning or losing will have to do much with said attempt. Caged rats, perhaps.


Maoist proclamations, linear in lines.


Ringing bells for Shiva is the rage all the Kingdom around. I can only assume that putting inanimate objects in close proximity (seen here, in the form of laundry) is an inadvertent way of allowing them to plea: "Praise Shiva."


Namely, the populous seems to be about as clueless as I do as to why there are big army trucks surrounded by Maoist flags in the field across from what I can comfortably ascertain, is the only mall in the country with an escalator.


We went to a renowned temple (Pashiputinath) in Kathmandu for a festival called Shiva Ratri, which just attested this political strife. The King was almost mobbed in his car; the police were fighting off civilians bursting through the line to get to the center of the temple. My camera was dead that day.

Needless to say, certain civilians seem to feel disparaged, shying away with heads hung in corners:



Another square, another import beer ad, and a plethora of motorcycles all carrying drivers in helmets (!), which I have come to characterise as quite an Asian anomaly:


Nepal, which shares the same Devangari script as Hindi; seems to have stuck to the traditional number system that India has left behind and favoured for, er - English numbers. But 1's look like 9's and 0's like 8's. Took a few days to sort out the currency, and the license plates still leave me slandered:


The kids seems to have other uses for vehicles that disclude government registrations:


It seems that the UN has the same approach to poverty and groveling children as I do, which is; I've just seemed to stop noticing:


May we all ponder the entrance gate to the embassy, as stared at during three sitting, each two hours respectively, over two days.


While not clearly evident in the magnitude of this picture, that sign above this looming brick walls proclaims "Kathmandu Metropolitan City." Oh yes. It parallels Tokyo, or New York; certainly.


Not even the class split of India that marks skyscrapers alongside slums exists, instead replaced by a relatively standardized per person income ratio. Perhaps a hundredth of a percent is wealthy enough to pertain to this poster. The rest sticks to the advertisement in the background for 5 ruppee Mayos noodles.


Every man over 30 seems to wear the trademark Nepali hat, and every man below it either possesses, or wish they possessed; an Avril or Britney t-shirt to which Bollywood suceeds.


I met a mathematician from Boston as my only dorm mate in the shithole of Pokhara, and we spoke of calculus. If only he could define the curvature of the line assembled by these pillars. Theories accepted.


Bridges.


Back-alleys.


All components of the infrastructural crumble inherent in the dustbowl of Kathmandu, lacking the bustle, the energy, the density of a country left behind; proving that I was within the boundaries of a very different world, indeed. And so the acute revelation:

"I'm not in India anymore."


As to allude Ginsberg:

"America, when will you send your eggs to India?"

[see also]

"Nepal, when will you send your power to India?"

Currently - for eight hours everyday, as outlined on a "load-shedding" schedule posted in even the most modest of establishments, nationwide.


Then everyone will get their petrol.

Friday, March 21, 2008

Obliterating Life in KT-fucking-M (Thamel)

You've traveled from far, perhaps by land, perhaps by air flight. You've arrived in a hot and dusty bowl, and you fancy maybe climbing some portion of the world's highest mountain. But before you get on with any of that, a most hospitable welcome, to the place where comfort rides with you high on its saddle.

Welcome to Thamel.


Oh yes, and I suppose; to Kathmandu.


There was a time when I thought Ko Sahn couldn't be trumped. But Thamel is a worthy contender for what I can only hope will be the futile end of tourist commercialism, sometime before the more holistic apocalypse.

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"The ice age is coming, the sun's zoomin' in...a nuclear era, but I have no fear; 'cause Thamel is burning, I...


...I live by the river!"

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Thamel, unlike Ko Sahn Rd, isn't just a street - but a whole two kms squared leading to the complete obliteration of all that is indigenous to local life. To arriving home with a coffee table book displaying center-folds of a (less caged) Annapurna:


With an array of hotels and, I opted for the "Om Tara". I hoped we were the right place for each other, and t'was true.


The windows were of grand scale, and oddly enough, the sheets smelled like freshly laundered linen.


The nightlife (to making base camp!) - could be celebrated in establishments purveying beer and cuisine approximating double the country's annual GDP. These included: the Reggae Bar, the Transit Club (titties and techno trance), and a multiplicity of cover-band venues enthusiastically emulating songs by the Dire Straits and the Guns N' Roses. All of this hovered above streets adorned with eight year olds huffing glue and middle-aged couples whisking by in Gortex.

The average Nepali seemed to find the whole thing a little confounding.


The question remains: is it really logical to backpack around Asia carrying a 52 kg golden Buddha. Some think so.


I loitered here for over a week with a most esteemed Manchesterian, tending to our necessary agendas: my Indian visa and his burst thrombosis induced cat-scan examinations. And so we succumbed to the finer of what Thamel had to offer: jam toast, Japanese food, toongba (Tibetan millet beer) and a plethora of Argentian red.


And so the burgeoning hunger for the acquisition of the real Kathmandu.


A mooch, then.