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.
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