Soon we were whizzing through the streets once more, off to see Boudhanath, a World Heritage Site, which was essentially just another stupa, only bigger. Instead of paraphrasing someone else, I shall quote the Boudhanath Area Development Committee’s brochure, which was given to me upon paying a modest entrance fee:
‘The Great Stupa of Boudhanath stands approximately 6km north-east from centre of Kathmandu valley. Surrounded by hills, Boudhanath stupa is a jewel point in the centre of a natural mandala, a store of sacred energy. It is one of the most important place of pilgrimage for the Buddhist.’
We walked down a wide alleyway before a giant stupa appeared right in front of us. This was more like it.
It was surrounded by buildings of typically ancient Kathmandu architecture, some of which were decorated in the brightest of colours. All the colours of the prayer flag. You thought I was going to say rainbow, didn’t ya? We wandered around, myself in awe of this gargantuan structure. Pilgrims from all over the world had dispersed themselves randomly around the place. Some prayed. Some sat in silent contemplation, others meditated. We did a complete circuit of the stupa, taking about ten minutes, before deciding to go up close. The temperature was probably in the mid-twenties, but there was no breeze here.
We wandered around further until we came across a Buddhist monk, a little below us, who looked to be setting up a couple of musical instruments. We stopped and waited. After a few moments he began to beat a drum with one hand while playing a stringed instrument with the other, and then began to chant in a crystal clear voice, clearer than a beautiful blue sky on a Himalayan morning. As if on cue, as though he had summoned it himself, the wind suddenly picked up and gently caressed the prayer flags hanging above our heads. A shiver went down my spine and I sat down in awe, having experienced the most spiritual moment of my entire life. I could have sat there forever, in that moment, and been content, but all too soon the monk had finished his chanting and began to pack up his things. He looked up, made brief eye contact with me and we both nodded a silent understanding of what had just happened before he turned his back and walked into the temple.
I mouthed a ‘Wow!’ to Subash, unable to speak, before getting up and continuing on our way.
‘That was awesome!’ I said after a while.
‘Yes, this is the chanting things,’ he replied, a little underwhelmed.
‘Did you see that wind? It was calm and then just started immediately when he began chanting.’
‘It was a feeling like a this,’ he replied again, this time with a smile creeping across his face. He was happy that I had felt it too.
‘All this spirituality has made me hungry, you want some lunch?’
‘Yes man, I didn’t have the breakfasts until now.’
‘Ok man, where is a good place?’
‘I don’t know. You is asking me in the mountains and I am telling you the very best of places, but I don’t know here. I think every place is good.’
I gave him a dubious look and he laughed.
‘Ok let’s look!’ he said and we wandered some more, this time our eyes turned away from the stupa and towards to the many restaurants. Most were three or four storey buildings, and most had lovely-looking rooftop terraces that afforded elevated views of the stupa. We came across a Bhutanese restaurant that we were about to continue walking past.
‘You know, I have never had Bhutanese food before. You?’ I enquired.
‘Never man.’
‘Ok, first time for everything,’ I said, and then ushered Subash inside to find out if they were open.
They were open, but we were the only guests, which is never a good sign, but we nonetheless pushed on up the stairs until we found the rooftop and took a well-earned seat. The breeze that the monk had conjured was in full flow up here, and we kicked back and ordered a couple of beers and just relaxed. It suddenly felt like I was on holiday.
I looked at the menu while sipping on my Carlsberg (they didn’t have Everest Beer or a Bhutanese beer), but was a little perplexed as to what to order. I didn’t recognise the name of a single dish.
When the waiter returned I asked Subash to translate for me.
‘What is your favourite Bhutanese food?’ I asked the man.
‘He is saying that it is all good.’
‘If he was having lunch with us now, what would he order?’
‘He said he would have the Bhutan platter.’
‘And what is that?’
‘He said it was a collection of the things. Like some of the soups, a curries and the things like this. But he is telling me it is very hot food, maybe it is a too hot for you.’
‘I’ll have that then, exactly how he would have it,’ I decided without hesitation. ‘What will you have Subash?’
He looked a little sheepish before choosing the cheapest thing on the menu. I saw what he was pointing to.
‘Do you really want that? Aren’t you hungry?’
‘Yes am hungry man, but this is expensive things.’
‘Come on, this is the first time we are trying the Bhutanese food, don’t you want the platter?’
‘You pay too much to me already man,’ he said, but would not hold my eye.
‘Subash it’s no problem man, you deserve it. Please. Have the platter.’
I looked at the waiter and held up two fingers. Subash smiled in defeat and was happy again. The platter cost US $5.
Before long the waiter brought back a big steaming bowl of rice and four accompanying dishes. Two were interesting cheesy soups that were very spicy indeed. The other two were delicious chicken curries. One of the cheese dishes was the Ema Datshi, and it is to Bhutan what Dal Bhat is to Nepal. It is the national dish, made with a mix of chillies and the local cheese of Datshi. I’m going to say I enjoyed it a lot, but it wouldn’t actually be something I’d eat on a regular basis. Cheesy curry soup is a step I’m just not ready to take yet, but I’m very happy we tried something new. The chicken curry was magnificent, and hot enough to knock your socks off. I was in heaven. I looked over at Subash and he wasn’t in heaven. Sweat was pouring from his brow and he was struggling his way through the soups.
‘Are you ok?’ I asked.
‘Yes, ok man.’
‘You don’t look ok.’
‘Yes, ok, but very much it is too spicy for me.’
‘I can tell.’
‘It is the very nice foods, but too hot for Nepali peoples.’
The waiter brought out some complementary desserts for us, which looked like a big white slop, but was very sweet and tasty. Subash launched his soup to the side and began coating his tongue gratefully with the white slop. I could do nothing but laugh.
*
About half an hour later we were hurtling down a bumpy road, me banging my head on that handle above me for the 32nd time, before firing up a hill to visit another temple. I was a bit over it, if I’m honest. We pulled up to some big steel gates and the driver sat on his horn for a good ten seconds until a security guard came rushing out and begged him to shut the hell up. Subash turned around to face me in the back and said, ‘This place is closed today for the monk’s meditation lessons.’
‘Whoops, they wouldn’t have enjoyed that noise he just made.’
‘No, they is a very angry.’
‘Should we go?’
‘Yes, better we go.’
The driver pulled around the corner out of sight of the security guard. Then Subash uttered something and the driver pulled the car over.
‘You would like to walk down this hills and meet the driver at the bottom?’ He asked me.
‘Ok, I like downhill,’ I replied, and the driver erupted into hysterical laughter. It was probably the first thing he’d understood from me and was delighted.
It was a pleasant stroll. Being higher up than the valley floor we had an excellent view of the sprawl that is Kathmandu. We were far enough away from the mayhem that it was actually quite clear and dust free, and we were treated to excellent views ba
ck up the way to the temple, which I have to admit was very impressive. After 10 minutes or so we found the fat driver standing outside of the car doing battle with half a dozen school children all dressed up in shirts and ties, trying to bash him playfully with some branches they had ripped from a nearby tree. The poor bloke was running around theatrically, trying to get himself in between the children and his car to protect it. Each time the children tapped the car they would go into hysterics, literally rolling around on the ground with laughter.
‘Why have they got those branches?’ I asked Subash while joining in on the laughter.
‘They is going down the hills and stealing it from the farmer down there. It is having the little fruits on it they is liking to eat.’
‘Won’t they get in trouble?’
‘They is the children. They can do anything they want.’
One of the boys suddenly took an interest in the camera I had around my neck.
‘Mister, mister!’ he called out at the top of his voice. ‘Pleased taking me the photograph!’
‘Yes, yes the photograph!’ the rest of the children called out in unison.
‘Ok, ok, sit on the wall,’ I answered, and they scurried in as quickly as they could, suddenly the best behaved children in the world.
‘Ok, ready, one…,’ I began a countdown, but it was the children that finished it off, with a choir of little voices chanting, ‘two, three!’
They entered a state of jubilation and I took a few photos of them.
‘Come here, come here,’ I ushered them over to show them their pictures on my little play-back screen. They were elated, and made me zoom in on all of them one-by-one. After they’d seen themselves they took off and began running around in circles, surely the happiest children on the face of the planet. I thought about what kind of world the children in Australia and other rich countries grew up in, with their iPads and games and apps and X-boxes, and wondered if their computer games ever made them as happy as a single photograph had made these little guys, or as happy as these kids were playing games with a friendly-looking stranger and his car.
The little boy, (the menace and the instigator) took a step away from me, looked me square in the eye and said, ‘Mister, thank you for my photograph!’
‘You’re welcome,’ I answered and watched as he was overcome by a fit of laughter, and broke into a run with both arms outstretched like an aeroplane. I wonder if they’re always like this, or there is something in that fruit.
We jumped in the car and began driving off. I turned and looked out the rear window to see us being chased by the children and their branches as they launched one final assault on the car. When it was beyond their grasp, they jumped up and down with their little arms around each other.
*
We were now on our way to see Pashupatinath, a holy place on the Bagmati River, revered by both Hindus and Buddhists alike, but probably most widely known by visitors to Kathmandu as the cremation site for Hindus.
The driver dropped us at about a 10-minute walk from the main entrance and we were forced to walk down a narrow street, lined with a thousand shops that sold exactly the same merchandise. It was mostly items of a religious nature, statues, bracelets and necklaces; but no one was buying anything. It did make me wonder how on earth these people survived with their little shops as their only livelihoods. I supposed that business would boom during days of special spiritual significance, but that was only an assumption. As we neared the entrance, a shifty looking man clocked us, immediately matched our walking pace and began to hassle Subash. They talked for a few minutes, before he turned his attention to me, asking, ‘My friend, you is wanting the guide for the Pashupatinath temple?’
‘No thanks man, I am just looking today.’
‘But you is needing to know the histories and the things like this and I am the very good guide.’
‘Nah you’re ok,’ I answered again, this time deliberately quickening my pace. He again sped up, and continued hassling me. On my travels throughout the world, I have become accustomed to people trying to hustle, but this man was something else. He got angry.
He began to shout at Subash in Nepali.
‘Hey mate, I don’t want a bloody guide, alright?’ I said, raising my voice a little.
‘This man is the trekking guides. He cannot be the city guides. He is stealing from my businesses!’
‘That man is my friend. He is not my guide. Now piss off!’
He looked as though he was going to shout something else at us, but instead checked himself, turned on his heel and stormed off.
‘What a wanker!’ I said to Subash.
‘Yes, is,’ he replied and then we quickly left the scene before any more unwanted attention was thrown our way. I paid an enormous entrance fee (something like US $10, which is very expensive in Nepali terms. The Buddhist temples only charged a dollar or two) and stepped into a large open courtyard. A group of five people sat over to our left, dressed in brightly coloured garments of orange and green. In front of them was an ancient-looking amp with a microphone attached. A couple of Indian-sounding instruments began to be played by a few members of the group before the man with the mic began singing softly. It was a traditional Nepali song, but his voice was dry and scratchy and it made me cringe a little bit.
‘These are the blind singers,’ Subash whispered.
‘Really? All of them?’
‘Yes, all.’
Good on them, I thought. But it didn’t change the fact that they were atrocious musicians. I dropped a couple of dollars into the basket, hoping the lead singer would spend it on singing lessons, before walking a bit further into the temple. There were a few cows (the sacred animal in the Hindu religion) scattered around the area and they just looked so out of place. Thousands of pigeons flocked the courtyard floor, but would get spooked occasionally and take to the sky.
‘Wish we had an umbrella,’ I called to Subash as it began to rain shit around us. He laughed and grabbed my arm as we jogged a little further down and away from the shit storm. We approached a large archway, but a sign placed directly out front informed us that only Hindus were permitted past this point.
‘Doesn’t seem fair,’ I said.
‘No problems man, shall we go and see the funerals?’
‘Yeah ok.’
We headed back the way we had come and back out the main gate where the guide was waiting, still fuming. He began to follow us as we headed towards the ghats. Then the bastard waited until we were walking past a security guard before erupting into another shouting match with Subash. Fortunately, we had outsmarted him. As he joined us I noticed he was watching Subash intently, so I dropped back a good 50 feet and went to a little stall and bought a drink of water. I could hear him shout the words ‘trekking guide’. The security guard looked around and shrugged, as if to say: Then where the hell is his client? I waited until Subash was well and truly inside and out of our line of vision, before I casually began to follow him. I walked past the security guard, but he shouted for me to stop. I turned slowly, thinking we had been busted.
I turned to find the man with the biggest, friendliest grin sprawled across his face.
‘My friend, ticket? Ticket?’ he asked.
‘Yes ticket having,’ I answered him with a smile to match. We were best of mates and I hoped that bastard guide could see that. I showed him my ticket and he bowed ever so slightly before putting out an open hand, allowing me to pass.
I found Subash on the bridge that connected the two banks and we kind of raised our eyebrows and rolled our eyes at each other. I looked around and took in the scene. A string of six or seven ghats lined just one side of the river, which was really just a small trickle of water. Monkeys shrieked and played in the river, splashing water and chasing birds. One of the ghats was ablaze in a roaring fire, which made the air thick with smoke. On the other side of the bank sat dozens of onlookers, coming to witness the cremation ceremony. A pair of boys were knee-deep in the river a little f
urther down, and were collecting bits of bamboo and timber that were floating down the stream, which they then piled high onto a makeshift trolley that they dragged along the riverbed.
We went and sat with the onlookers, where the mood was nothing short of solemn. I watched as a group of about eight men carried an old woman into sight, before carefully placing her up on the pyre and retreating to say a few words. I took in the whole scene. The person that was already on fire was almost completely cremated, apart from his lower legs and feet, which were sticking out a little from the flames. A man realised, went over and adjusted some tinder so that the flames soon enveloped what was left.
Back at the other ghat the men carried the woman’s body around the pyre three times, before placing her back down. They unwrapped the garment which cloaked her entire body from head to toe, revealing her face to me for the first time. “You aren’t that old,” I said to the woman, before a member of the family lit a small fire in her mouth which quickly encompassed her entire body, and within minutes she couldn’t be seen behind the smoke and flames. It was a slightly bizarre and alien thing for me to witness, but I can say quite honestly that I felt nothing inside. Not sadness, not disgust. I can only really say that I felt quite honoured to be able to witness this side of a very different culture to my own. And I’m not being mean here or insensitive or anything like that, but the place smelt like a barbecue. It really did.
‘Let’s go Subash, I’ve seen enough.’
As we were walking out of the temple for the last time, two black jeeps pulled up in a hurry, and out jumped almost a dozen men in military attire with semi-automatic machine guns slung over their shoulders. They checked the area as Subash and I stood there dumbfounded. One man, the leader, raised a hand in the direction from which they had come and suddenly a few more cars pulled up. A man, probably about 60 years old, came striding confidently forward with two armed guards on either shoulder.
The Nepali Flat Page 19