The Waiting Land

by Dervla Murphy

  Bodhanath is now chiefly associated in foreign minds with the rich and influential Chine Lama, a prominent character who is sometimes erroneously described as the Dalai Lama’s representative in Nepal – a position that in fact is held at present by a Khampa layman named Sergay. I can think of no two men who are less alike than the Dalai and Chine Lamas; yet foreigners accept him as a bona fide example of a Tibetan lama – which error might be funny were it not so unfair to many thousands of genuine lamas. As Pasang and I cycled towards the monastery around the base of the stupa, past scores of giant copper prayer-wheels set in the circular wall, we saw a Tourist Office minibus decanting some dozen wide-eyed visitors outside the Chine Lama’s house. Pasang then asked me if I too would like to meet him; but I declined with thanks.

  The Bodhanath Tibetan monastery was built about thirty years ago and now houses some forty monks and lamas, ranging in age from a charming sixty-five-year-old Rimpoche to several Incarnate Lamas of eight or nine, who when we arrived were happily scampering around the courtyard in their long, ragged maroon robes. I visited the temple first, with some excitement, being conscious that it was the nearest I’m ever likely to get to a genuine Tibetan temple of the traditional style. And indeed it was as genuinely Tibetan as could be – filthy and magnificent and untidy and awe-inspiring, with gross, ferocious effigies of gods and goddesses lurking in the gloom, swathed in ceremonial white scarves and presiding over the hundreds of tormas and wispily luminous butterlamps that had been laid before them. The monks’ praying-seats lined the aisle in front of the ‘High Altar’, facing each other. Some had incongruous tins labelled Farex Baby Food or Andrews’ Liver Salts beside them, containing roasted flour for making that tsampa on which the monks somehow survive during their long chantings from the scriptures – and when there are a hundred and eight thick tomes to be chanted aloud quite a lot of flour must be required.

  Each member of this community has his own cell, and from the temple Pasang and I were conducted to the Rimpoche’s quarters – a tiny cupboard of a room, some ten feet by four, with a plank bed, one thin blanket and a miniature shrine where eleven butter-lamps burned before a picture of the Lord Buddha. Here we each consumed five cups of heavily buttered tea – a smiling young lama stood beside us throughout with poised kettle – and reluctantly ate the damp but very expensive Indian biscuits which, despite this monastery’s evident poverty, were produced from a tin trunk under the bed.

  Here one soon sensed a concentration of all that is best in Tibetan Buddhism – simple, ardent piety, cheerful courage, gentleness, instinctive courtesy and a quick sense of fun. Then, as we talked with the Rimpoche and the four other lamas who had squeezed into his cell, I became painfully aware that now I was glimpsing part of the last act in the drama of a civilisation’s history. By the time the young Incarnate Lamas of this community have grown to manhood only a shell will be left of that unique tradition which bred them.

  11 MAY

  Among the friends I’ve made here during the past ten days is a nine-year-old schoolboy with one of those beautiful young faces that misleadingly denote an extreme degree of virtue. He is a pupil at St Xavier’s College, the big boys’ school run by American Jesuits for Nepalese students, and he speaks quite fluent English – as do an astonishing number of middle-class youths in the valley. I first met Rambahadur outside the GPO, where he loiters daily to contact his clients – those foreigners who wish to change money or travellers’ cheques on the black market. He came sauntering up to me and said – naturally out of the corner of his mouth – ‘Want to change?’ and when I replied ‘Yes, but not today’, he took my hand in his, showing a touching childishness rather at variance with his spare-time profession, and off we went to have a cup of tea together and make mutually convenient arrangements. At his age the ability to conduct shrewd financial transactions has a certain charm, and the necessity to do so a certain poignancy; we quickly became friends when I noticed that he was not a scrounger, but simply worked to earn honest, if illegal, commission, and I arranged to meet him this morning to cash a £50 cheque. However, when I arrived at our New Road rendezvous I found not only Rambahadur but four others – two men and two youths – all waiting to capture my custom. Rambahadur looked small, forlorn and scared; but he was evidently going to stand his ground like a good little Gurkha and secretly I had no intention of deserting him. Yet this was my chance to hold an auction and secure a better rate, so I played the five off against each other until, in desperation, Rambahadur promised me Rs. 32/-N.C. to the pound. One of the men (a nasty-looking character) said that he too could get me Rs. 32/- and when I shook my head and held out my hand to Rambahadur the boy was at once knocked into the gutter by a savage blow from his rival. At this I lost my temper and gave the bully a box on the ear, whereupon all four vanished, leaving me to retrieve a sobbing Rambahadur from the gutter. And before my business could be transacted the negotiator had to be consoled and cuddled and mopped up. This incident struck me as typically Eastern: at one moment Rambahadur was a tough man-of-the-underworld, all set to do nefarious deeds down a back-alley, and the next moment he was sobbing in my arms, a big baby with a painful shoulder.

  We then turned off New Road, with its would-be Western-style shops, and immediately were amidst that dank maze of narrow laneways which still forms the main part of Nepal’s capital. When we came to a small square Rambahadur glanced furtively around, though no one was in sight, before darting through a very low doorway and beckoning me to follow him. The domestic courtyard we now crossed was scattered with stone gods and phallic symbols, but I had no time to study these before being quickly hustled into a pitch-dark interior and led up a steep, shaky wooden stair to a squalid ‘bed-sitter’, where Rambahadur instructed me to await developments. He then disappeared, locking me in the little room – presumably as a precaution against inquisitive neighbours.

  For the next twenty minutes there were no developments. The small window overlooked the courtyard, where a wrinkled, much-bejewelled woman was now scouring brass pots and platters with handfuls of black mud, afterwards rinsing them in sour-looking water. A dejected pi-dog, which had accompanied her, was nosing unhappily at a heap of refuse, and then a tiny naked boy toddled out to make his contribution to the excrement already in evidence – being afterwards called by granny to have his bottom cleaned, also with black mud and water. In general this scene was not uplifting and I soon turned away to observe the interior of the room.

  In one corner stood a large, padlocked tin trunk, which I rightly assumed to be the ‘safe’, and on top of it were piled a number of poorly-printed paperbacks in Nepali, indicating that the money-changer – who of course would also be a trader – had had some education. Several garish Hindu oleographs were pinned to the walls between a large photograph of King Mahendra with Queen Elizabeth II and a TWA picture calendar for 1952. And, presumably as a demonstration of strict neutrality, small photographs of Nehru, Gandhi, Chou-en-lai, President Kennedy and Khrushchev were huddled companionably in a corner by the door.

  I had become thoroughly bored by these gentlemen when at last Rambahadur returned with our fellow-conspirator – a lean little Chetri who looked sharp-eyed but honest. Having scrutinised my cheque, passport and various signatures very closely he requested me to write both my local and home addresses in his ‘register’ – a scruffy exercise book. Then he took the key of the trunk from round his neck, walked to the corner almost ceremoniously and finally, after much muttered counting and recounting, handed me the cash in brand new notes. I couldn’t help wondering what practical purpose my credentials could serve in these circumstances; if my cheque were a dud there was no method of legal redress open to him and equally, if his notes were duds, I was debarred from protesting officially. In fact this was the most pleasing part of the transaction: it demanded a high degree of mutual trust – and so far his notes have not been questioned. I also wonder, being conspicuously ignorant about financial matters, how and where such cheques are eventually ca
shed. It is said that in many countries with an unstable currency they are never cashed, but are passed from hand to hand as legal tender; yet this seems unlikely, for the simple reason that they would disintegrate comparatively quickly. Even now in parts of Nepal the country’s own paper currency is unacceptable for the same reason.

  This afternoon I spent four and a half hours buying medical supplies for the refugees in Pokhara – a fascinating experience, unlikely ever to be repeated elsewhere. To begin with most of the stocks – imported from India – have passed or are rapidly approaching expiry date and the anxious salesmen look at you pathetically when you point out that this terramycin or that sulphaguanidine has been useless since last March. They then explain hopefully that local doctors unquestioningly use these drugs every day (which doesn’t surprise you in the least) and having declined to follow the doctors’ example you resignedly move on to the next chemist. Naturally everything takes ten times as long as it would at home – finding the articles, searching for the semi-illegible invoices, painfully and not always accurately pin-pointing the relevant articles on the invoices, typing the account with one finger on a machine that looks like the first of its kind, checking, packing, unpacking because that box was too small, repacking, finding straw because the other box was too large … If one were new to the Asian business scene (of which Nepal is admittedly an extreme example) one would go mad within an hour; even though reasonably adjusted I very nearly did go mad after four and a half hours. But mercifully the petty dishonesty so common in India seems to be much less evident here; every night I leave Leo in Sigrid’s garden – an act of faith which no one but a lunatic would make in India.

  It will sadden me to leave this warm-hearted little household, which has recently been augmented by two domineering hens, bought by Donbahadur to provide Sigrid with really fresh eggs. At dusk they come strutting into the living-room, watched by a disapproving but discreetly unprotesting Puchare, and demand to be put to bed in the kitchen under the standard Nepalese wicker coop. Now Donbahadur is murmuring ambitiously about the advantages of owning a buffalo heifer – to provide Sigrid with really fresh milk. But I suspect that his stockpiling enthusiasm will be checked at this point, to avert the occupation of the bathroom by cattle.

  3

  Descent on Pokhara

  12 MAY – POKHARA

  This morning, when delayed by a series of typical Kathmandu hitches, I foolishly allowed myself to fizz slightly; all passengers for Pokhara were due at the Royal Nepalese Airways Corporation Terminal at twelve noon, but it was 11.58 a.m. before I had got myself, my knapsack and assorted boxes of medical supplies, dried milk and old clothes assembled at the appointed spot. (Leo cannot travel until a day when the plane is less loaded with freight for Pokhara.) Yet I needn’t have fizzed; minutes passed, and more minutes, and half an hour, and three-quarters of an hour – and then an impatient-voiced young man told us to hurry out to the bus, his tone implying that the delay was all our fault. We next had to walk some three hundred yards up a side-street and with so many bits and pieces in my charge I was the last to reach the smart, blue airport bus (donated by the USA). Disconcertingly, it was quite empty, but an exceedingly decrepit Afghan-type bus stood a little further on, packed to the roof (part of which was missing), and now someone beckoned to me and shouted ‘Pokhara? This Pokhara bus.’ So I squeezed in, having paused to pick up from the ground under the bus a British Embassy mailbag, gravely but not very effectively labelled ‘On Her Majesty’s Service’. My luggage was then insecurely attached to what remained of the roof and I engaged a small boy to ride with it and scream loudly if anything fell off. Now all we needed was a bus-driver; and one did appear after about ten minutes. He took a pair of sandals from beneath the driving-seat, slipped them on to mark the resumption of his official duties, climbed leisurely into the cab, lit a foul-smelling cigarette and started the engine. Giving a roar like a wounded tiger the bus at once leapt convulsively across the rough street and I trembled for my small boy on the roof; but curiously enough both he and my luggage were still there when we arrived at Gaucher Airport forty minutes later.

  There are eight landing-strips in Nepal, all but two – Pokhara and Gorkha – being in the Terai, and RNAC runs daily flights (weather permitting) to each of these favoured points. This means that as fares are relatively low (about £3 for a hundred-mile flight) many Nepalese villagers have graduated within a decade from the earliest-known method of transport to the most modern. At first I was astonished to see so many poverty-stricken peasants queuing for planes, but I soon realised that if one can arrive in thirty-five minutes instead of walking for ten days, spending money on food and lodging en route, it is undoubtedly more economical to fly.

  At Gaucher Airport a wind-stock is not necessary during this season when the wind rhythmically blows columns of yellow dust across the field – a sight both horrible and fascinating. Even more fascinating is the airport’s indescribable turmoil; it is entirely beyond my understanding how anyone ever gets to their prearranged destination – or ever finds their luggage on the same plane as themselves.

  The Pokhara flight was scheduled to depart at 2.30 p.m., and at 2.15 I went into the small airport restaurant for a cup of tea. At 2.25 the loudspeaker made a rapid crackling noise, so indistinct that it could have meant anything in any language, and I optimistically deduced that the Pokhara flight was being called. But looking out of the window I saw our huge handcart of luggage still standing near the verandah where it had been loaded; so I relaxed again, aware that this was no reliable indication of the flight’s postponement, but determined to stand by those hard-won medical supplies.

  After another cup of tea I moved out to the verandah, where an ocean of humanity and luggage was ebbing and flowing amidst a despairing babel of sound as everyone pleaded with everyone else to tell them when their flight was departing and which plane was going where. At this stage four Dakotas (two of them venerable machines bought long ago from Aer Lingus) were enigmatically lined up on the airfield and one simply had to watch to see which plane one’s luggage was put into – and go on from there. The luggage itself was a classic Asian array – tin trunks, bed-rolls, padlocked wooden boxes, bundles tied up in filthy clothes, bulging sacks, plastic baths filled with miscellaneous objects, cardboard cartons uncertainly roped together, canvas satchels, cloth bags, biscuit tins, and wicker dokars (porters’ baskets) shaped like overgrown weaver-birds’ nests. When at last our cart was pushed and pulled to a plane by four coolies I somewhat cynically followed to supervise the loading, for here the public are allowed to wander at will among arriving and departing aircraft.

  Half an hour later the loudspeaker made another of its rude noises, people began to move towards our plane – and now it seemed we really were on the way to Pokhara. Then suddenly everyone stopped moving and started to gesticulate and protest, and a young Nepalese teacher beside me announced in English that our flight had been postponed until seven o’clock tomorrow morning. To me this seemed so true to form that I wasn’t even slightly surprised – nor was I half as annoyed as my Nepalese fellow-passengers. Strolling back to the verandah I sat awaiting the unloading of the plane and a reunion with my medical supplies, for which I was by now developing an almost maternal affection, having guided them through so many dangers. The young teacher came to sit beside me, his pale-skinned, fine-featured face puckered with frustration. When I asked him if he knew why the flight had been cancelled he sighed and said, ‘The crew never came – this often happens after a party that is late to end. And in Kathmandu we have many parties.’ He added, ‘For you our country is full of difficulties – I’m sorry.’ To which I sincerely replied that for me his country was a joy, and not half as full of difficulties as the West; but I’m afraid my sincerity failed to convince him.

  By now our handcart had arrived back at the verandah and was being rapidly unloaded; my companion explained that the next flight, to Simra, had just been postponed as this cart was needed to load the relevant pl
ane. Then, when half our luggage had been flung to the ground, a rumour started that our flight might be going after all – and instantly the confusion became unbearable, as the Simra coolies had been impatiently loading the cart with their luggage before our luggage was all unloaded and now the piles on ground and cart were inextricably muddled. As no definite statement had been made regarding the Pokhara flight it had become a matter of opinion whether our luggage or the Simra luggage should be unloaded or reloaded and on this point the coolies were disagreeing violently – so after some moments I decided to rescue the medical supplies before they were whisked off to the Terai.

  Time passed and the coolies squabbled and bits of luggage went flying around like shuttlecocks. But then there came a new flurry and fuss, followed by joyous exclamations from my fellow would-be passengers, and it was confirmed that we had indeed been reprieved – because, as I later discovered, the American Ambassador and his wife were booked to Pokhara on our flight, which circumstance had inspired someone to filch the crew from another unfortunate plane.

  When we finally took off at 2.45 p.m. I was not as nervous as I might have been, because RNAC’s multiracial team of pilots and engineers has established during the past eight years a safety record that many more experienced and disciplined airlines might envy – and this in a country where high peaks, treacherous valleys, swiftly changing weather and scanty technical equipment increase the normal hazards of flying.