Journeys Beyond the Front Door

by James Hastings

  We sat at a table off to the side under the watchful gaze of the other travellers as they began shovelling their meals with increased vigour. While we did not necessarily trust the cutlery inside this dusty treasure trove we opted for using pappadums as makeshift spoons and scooping with our hands, as is the tradition in the barbarian lands. Having finished my meal of vegetable curry, I had opted to engage in a bathroom break and as I entered the bathroom, I found an elderly man standing in front of the mirror, balls deep in what initially looked like the process of flossing his teeth. I made my way into the stall to conduct the necessary business and once I had emerged to wash up, found him in a beaming state of self-satisfaction as held out towards me a newly extracted tooth. We stood there staring at each other as he grinned a gummy grin and I absent-mindedly washed my hands before bidding a hasty retreat out of there. After witnessing the delight of failed dentistry practices, I made my way outside the food hall and onto the street to re-stock on cheap cigarettes and chocolate before we were once more bundled back onto our steel chariot and continued our way up the mountain trails as the mist once again began to part to reveal the deep winding valleys below.

  Our ascent became progressively slower as the train of trucks and buses before us crawled forward, eagerly awaiting their opportunity to overtake each other. The strained road surface broke out in craters and ravines before dropping blindly off to the struggling trees that lined the boundary of impending doom. Occasionally there would be a break in the shrub line which would be preceded by skid marks and divots in the soil to mark a sobering reminder of what was no doubt a death plunge into the unknown. After some hours, our driver once again pulled off the road and into the yard of a cliff side hotel that overlooked a rushing blue river. As the passengers descended from the bus and the men lined up along the cliff edge to urinate into the wind, I entered through the terraced garden of the restaurant on the look out for more snacks. While waiting in line behind the other hungry travellers, I spotted the chocolate and crisps that my body forced itself to desire and attempted to purchase them but sadly the girl behind the counter looked at me with blank stares at my requests. With hands thrown in the air, I left empty handed to smoke out by the terrace and gaze out at the turbulent waters below. Cigarette butts and packaging littered the surrounding area from the road way down through the cliffs to the water line and it seemed fitting that I too would urinate down the cliff face, but not before pocketing my butts with intent of finding a bin later. Even with so much rubbish everywhere, it still did not seem right to add to the pile.

  It was a long and soul numbing journey from this point on, slowly bouncing along the mountain path as we took our place in the high altitude traffic jam before we crested the rim of the Kathmandu basin and made our way down into the city under the cover of darkness. With delirium and cabin fever having set in hours ago, when we finally arrived at the bus depot there was a sense of exhilaration mixed with desperation for sleep. As we stood around the rear of the bus waiting to collect our bags, we were instantly surrounded by taxi drivers enquiring as to where we were going and pestering for patronage. With the use of some not so subtle language, they were convinced that we were indeed fine as we were and required being left alone so that we could gather our wits and our minds. We found a quiet corner away from the crowds to smoke our cigarettes as we worked out where it was we actually were and where it was we would even be going.

  With our composure slightly regained, I returned to a driver of whom I'd previously just been entirely rude too to beg for his forgiveness and enquired if he was still able to take us to our hotel. With small chats it was agreed and he helped collect our bags and led us through the crowded bus depot and out onto the surrounding streets to where his car was parked. I had expected him to be the driver, but it turned out he was nothing more than a middle man as a large monstrosity of a man exited the driver’s door to help stow our bags into the tiny hatchback. And so we left the depot behind us and made our way through the crowded night markets and unto the maze of narrow road ways, barely missing the swarm of cars and clipping at least one cyclist before we found ourselves on the main roads of solid paving that would lead us back into the tourist district and to the sanctuary of a bed to sleep.

  Finally, while on the verge of passing out from exhaustion, we arrived at our final dwelling in Nepal. We had wisely predetermined before we left that we should splash out somewhat for our final couple of days and organised a small apartment and we very much looked forward to having our own quiet place, well away from the jungle boot camps we had just endured. The apartment itself was up on the fourth floor of a peculiarly modern building which overlooked the quieter portion of the tourist district . . . but was still close enough to the main strip to prove negligible. We were greeted warmly by the front desk and led up the elevator to our room to find a spacious clean dining-come-living area with a large bedroom off to the rear and interconnected by a classic bathroom. With bags thrown down and Sarah perched on the couch with scotch and stable internet connections to e-mail the home front to wish belated Christmas wishes and to inform the family back down under that we were indeed still alive, I opted to attempt to wash the stank that had accumulated from a day of bus travel wearing days old clothing off. The shower itself was an odd one to operate, requiring a button on the handle to be pressed in to make the water come out. Only the hot water kept turning itself off. Being a plumber by trade, I found this completely frustrating. Clad in a towel and discontentment, I found the water heater bolted to the wall in the kitchen and began to fiddle with the valves and press the buttons. I noticed here that the gas line coming out of the wall consisted of brittle plastic tube and utilux clips and was reminded of the news story from the beginning of this trip about gas leaks and apartments exploding. When it became evident that more fiddling with knobs and buttons would not work, I begrudgingly re-dressed in my own stank and ventured back down to the lobby to explain the situation at hand. Our man on the front desk did not seem overtly surprised by my story and came up to the room carrying a large gas bottle. As it turned out, the bottle under the sink was devoid of anything useful and with a quick flick of the wrist, the bottles were changed, the heat was available and I was finally able to bathe the excrement from my soul.

  Chapter Seventeen: New Years Disillusion

  We awoke late the next morning convinced to snooze from the luxury and comfort of the giant bed and its rejuvenating qualities before lazily descending down into the streets in search of foodstuffs and more nick nack items from the surrounding bazaars. It had been decided that we would try to do the last of our shopping for novelties today so that we could send it all homeward bound . . .so we roamed around like vagabonds, slowly filling up our backpacks with presents at partial random. On our lap of the district, we came across a small convenience store on the outskirts of Freak Street, wedged between a hippy pants shop and a ramshackle store selling paper products, that had on display in the window more of the Ghurka rum bottles that had been purchased back in the jungle. Granted these bad boys were slightly more expensive, but they seemed like a divine gift for people back home. So with our backpacks filled to over-flowing with god knows what, with glee I carried three more knife-shaped bottles back to the cargo shop that we had utilized the week before heading back to our sanctuary.

  With tedious responsibilities now out of the way, we once more ventured out of the apartment and were made aware by way of signage that there was a restaurant on the top floor of the building. Feeling somewhat famished at this point, we eloped up the elevator and found ourselves standing in the foyer of a high class restaurant. As we were brought to our table it was hard to not notice that the room was filled with suits and ties whilst we were clad in multi-coloured ponchos and death metal shirts. Without pomp nor decorum, we ordered our food and the most amusingly named cocktails from the house menu and settled in our booth to watch the small acoustic band play at the front of the restaurant as they were ignored by the business sect before
them. With stomachs filled and alcoholic concoctions consumed, we staggered our way out into the streets to find them somewhat deserted of boisterous tourists, who were no doubt saving their livers for New Year Eve celebrations to be had the following night and the domain over-run by street children. As we stumbled down into the main tourist strip, we handed out half eaten packets of Oreos and key rings to those wide-eyed creatures that dared approached us before sneaking back into the Isis sheesha bar for more cocktails and a refreshing smoke of apple flavoured goodness before finally finding our way to a roadside chemist to enquire about antibiotics to help kick the chest infections that had plagued us since the beginning of our time in these lands. Without much fanfare, enquires were also made about the sourcing of Valium and other assortments of prescription medication and the only question we were asked were “how many?” With a warning of taking things easy, we were handed boxes of compressed powder delights and went on our way to crash diving into the merciful waves of drug-induced sleep back at our secured bungalow in the sky.

  With a lazy day spent eating local delicacies and finding obscure comic books, we retired back to the apartment in the early afternoon of the following day to prepare ourselves for the debacle that would no doubt be New Years. The non-smoking room had thusly been converted into a smoking room by way of prying open more windows in the lounge into a debaucherous heathens den and between snatching sneaky cigarettes breaks through the gap it the window and flicking out the butts into the piles of rubbish below, we proceeded to laze about the apartment like retarded sloths, watching the mind-numbing movies on the English Channel before a table laden with copious amounts of gummy bears and pastry snacks, illegitimate over the counters and cheap cigars. All of which which were washed down with cheap Nepalese rum.

  As I had secured the only clean clothing that was left at my disposal, I found myself chain smoking and knocking back shots of rum whilst Sarah sorted herself out and made herself presentable for our night out. By the time that she was ready to head out the door, my bottle had been emptied and I too was now ready to procure more alcoholic beverages and continue the festivities that were undoubtedly about to unfold. Our first stop on this path of debacle was thankfully also the closest, so we stumbled our way down the rickety side streets back to the Isis Bar to hand out some pendants we had acquired back in Lumbini and express our New Year blessings to our cheery wait staff. As it would have been rude not to, we also sat down for some mildly alcoholic cocktails and sheeshas and dined heartily on deep fried cheese sticks with tangy dipping sauce. This all seemed like a logical run of events at the time.

  However, with the desire for more substantial food stuffs to line our fermenting stomachs rising, we bid our final farewells and descended the stairs back out into the fray of the pedestrian spilling out on the road way below. We snaked and shimmied our way through the boisterous crowds back to the Northfield Cafe, our flag standard of well-proportioned and gastronomically safe eatery, and lined our stomachs with spicey thupka soups and buffalo wings. To the delight of the waiter he assured me that they weren't sourced from real buffaloes since they do not have wings. Ha. With in-jokes between staff and the habitual flirting between the owner and Sarah now complete, we awaited the arrival of our bill as we absent-mindedly watched the count down to the new year roll over commence. As we exited the arch way that framed the way out of the restaurant, we were greeted by the sight of a procession of smelly hippies and locals chanting their nonsensical festive chants down the main street of the district. The parade skipped and spun in circles and the cacophony of chimes, bells and drums swamped the narrow streets and ensured that you would have to either join in with the rabble or press yourself against the shop windows to allow the intoxicated to pass by.

  This happy liquored up procession of misfits hopped their way along to fill the central square and we were able to once again shimmy our way past to find a vantage point to the side to witness the hideous spectacle before us. It became apparent that this was not a sanctioned display of emotion, but more of an impromptu jamboree headed by a disheveled and barefoot Jim Jones lookalike in a mystical robe who ranted in whimsical musical tones and kept in time with bongo drums. To his credit, the crowd was drunk enough to join in. Whilst this small section of town was jam packed with highly inebriated people, some passed out in alley ways and gutters, some just dancing to the tune inside their own heads. Interestingly enough, there was no hint of any aggravation. No fights. No harsh words. No punching on and playing the traditional game of ‘Hide the Teeth’, which is so prevalent on any given occasion that alcohol is involved back at home. The mountain air surely did seem to provoke a sense of camaraderie and sanctity. On the downside, what also was prevalent was what appeared to be a whole lot of opportunistic sexual assault. As Sarah found herself the only pale faced, blonde haired woman amongst this mass of dancing males, there seemed to be a conveyer belt of hands that would grab at her ass. Being a creature who shuns physical touch at the best of times, this intrusion on personal space became too much for the girl, so we left this rabble of noise behind us and made our way into a Irish bar around the corner.

  For the privilege to ascend the curled stairway, we first had to pay an entry fee of five dollars, which also gained access to a special welcome scotch and the sweet smell of purple sticky Himalayan spice bellowing from all corners of the establishment. We made our way through the crowd and past the gangsters and pimps in their two-piece finest, gliding through the thick smoke like a ship in the fog and found ourselves at the small bar at the rear to redeem our vouchers. With the cheapest of scotch in hand, we circled the room past the local cover band and gyrating prostitutes and found before us a rustic yet deceptively stable stairwell to the roof tops that beckoned to be explored. With trepidation and uneasy feet, we arrived onto the roof top bar and found a small table next to the ledge that beckoned us to sit down.

  Scattered across the open landing lay large metal fire pits being fed by fragmented wooden pallets which served to take the chill out of the air and were manned by small groups of drunkards taking turns in necking down bottles and putting their hands through the flames as if it were a feat of strength and ingenuity. As one small group behind us began to sympathetically vomit in unison over the balcony, we finished off our spine shivering cheap scotch and made our way undaunted down the stairs, taking care to utilise the railing for added balance and co-ordination before finding ourselves back out on the street once more. In conjunction with my increasingly jolly inebriated state and Sarah's majestic yet somewhat sober chauffeur duties, she became increasingly disinterested in socialising with the masses this night and was visibly dropping into her usual bipolar state of misanthropy. She then decided she had had quite enough of the overwhelming sensory overload, shenanigans and blatant objectification and demanded to be returned to the lair, so we crept our way back through the swelling crowds once more to deliver her back to the safety and solitude of the locked doors of the apartment complex for mental recovery. Having a liver full of digesting concoctions and energy running through my legs, I made my a beeline into the tide, my heart set on seeking drunken adventure time.

  I made my way back to the infamous Purple Haze rock bar and apprehensively paid another cover charge to the doorman, who swiftly stamped my wrist and bid me up the stairs. At the top of the stairs, stood another doorman who was seemingly intent on refusing entry to all who attempted it, but with protests of just having paid, I was finally permitted the entry I paid for and took the final flight of stairs into the dank auditorium to be greeted by the usual karaoke masterpieces from the eighties. Once more, I found myself learning over the bar ordering up liter bottles of beers for chump change before shuffling my way towards the dancing section between the bar and the stage. The clientele tonight was vastly different from our last outing into this den of juxtapositions, with many tour groups and travellers ensuring that their New Years was spent in the city and not in some far-flung mountain village of enlightenment.

>   I found myself talking and drinking with a small group of Canadians and English gypsies and partaking in the awkward dance of the white man that has been passed down from generation to generation and is now deeply engrained in our culture. By the time that the third round of litre bottles of cheap local beer was being consumed, the lights of the bar began to turn on and the patrons began trooping their way out. It appeared that my level of drunkenness had not yet approached the equal level of offensiveness and I was still in a stage of over-confident charm when I was invited back to drink at whichever third rate hostel on the outskirts of the city that this group of revelers was staying in. Being midway between stages of inebriation, following a small group of drunken foreigners of whom I had only just met through a warren of dark alley ways and into the outskirts of unknown parts of the city seemed like a grand idea.

  After a variety of twists and turns, we finally reached this fabled hostel and alighted the stairs up onto the roof top, where we found the bar in the final stages of closing. With all the charm that could be mustered, we gave the bar man some extra notes to remove the padlocks and fill our hands with as many bottles as we could possibly carry. Loaded up with the poison of our people, we moved out onto the balcony, with its large, tropical-inspired courtyard that was laden with mats and bean bags catered to the smelly hippy yoga enthusiast. We sat and joined the groups, made polite introductions and welcomed each other into the new year before settling to listen to their continued stories of pseudo spiritual awakenings and individual enlightenment that had been achieved in the mountains and other nonsensical ramblings.