Nepal - Kathmandu Durbar Square

Someone once told me that if I loved Bolivia, I would definitely love Nepal. And there are undoubtedly many similar characteristics and transferable skills: both are very poor, mountainous nations where everyone wears sandals no matter how cold it is, hats no matter how warm it is, and enjoy the subtleties of being a quietly pushy people.

The flight over was relatively unremarkable. I sat between two older women named Cindy Lou and Mary Jo who decided that we should all go to the bathroom at the same time. Mary Jo in the window seat would look over at us every couple of hours and say, "Are we ready ladies?" and we would all make a pilgrimage to the back of the plane. Somehow I ordered a lacto-ovo vegetarian meal so I got served my boring rice and boiled vegetables before everyone else. I did note, however, that evidently vegetarians don't eat dessert. Despite no dessert and frequent movement, my feet still swelled so much that my boots didn't fit and my kneecaps felt like they would pop off. I retain water like a pro.

I landed in Nepal, after approximately 11 bathroom runs, at 10PM. I had heard stories about the craziness of the airport but had a delightfully prosaic time... because I already had a visa photo, the application all filled out, and $25 in cash. I only witnessed two luggage cart struggles and my pre-arranged taxi was waiting for me. That was actually all thanks to my dear sweet friend Ambika who called the hotel several times to hassle them for a taxi unbenownst to me. Arriving at night is never fun and it would have been a nightmare to negotiate a taxi in a strange city with a fuel shortage after 24 hours of travel. So thank you Ambi!

The taxi drive was through one-car-wide streets full of drunken tourists, prostitutes, and Nepalis weaving around on motor bikes and I had no idea if I was being kidnapped and driven to the shadiest neighborhood ever or if this was normal for a Friday night in Kathmandu. (It is, in the Thamel district.) I think you have figured it out that I survived the ordeal.

Dhaka topi, the national hat for men

Colored powder for holy days

My first day in Nepal I decided to just wander around but honestly, I was petrified that I wouldn't be able to find my hotel again in the warren of extremely narrow streets with no signs or real concrete landmarks. I set upon the tactic of trying to walk in as straight a line as possible. In Kathmandu it seems that every street is a market street and that every temple doubles as a market stall.

Even temples double as market stalls

Luckily Durbar Square fell within my straight line trajectory. Durbar means something like "royal court" and there is one in each district of Nepal. After paying my fee (inflated for foreigners of course) a young tour guide named Mr. D. glommed on to me after showing me his notebook with many glowing recommendations for his services from other harried foreign tourists. Since I was travelling alone and Durbar Square has no interpretative signage at all I decided to splurge on a tour. My notes are unfortunately sparse as I had trouble keeping all the temples and various Hindu deities and Buddhist saints straight. In fact my only note is "Shorea robusta" the species of tree out of which the Kasthamandap temple was carved.

Taleju temple, largest in the Square and built in the 16th century

A temple inside a ficus tree, the species under which the Buddha was enlightened

Jagannath Temple. Each roof pillar has a different erotic carving. To prompt the monks to reproduce? To prevent the virgin lightening goddess from coming close? Simply art? Who knows?

The wise man (or woman) who can read all the languages on this stone will come into riches.

Kathmandu's Durbar Square is home to a Kumari, or living goddess inhabited by Taleju. In Nepal the Kumari is selected from the Buddhist Newari caste between the ages of three and puberty. She has to go through several feats of strength and bravery before becoming goddess and then is worshiped by Hindus until she sustains a large blood loss through either injury or beginning menstruation. If one asks nicely, she will come to the window of her temple and bless tourists...and we got to see her! Followed of course by a series of questions on her living conditions, access to her family, and right to education because this seems like a strange and isolating existence to this Western woman. I am pleased to report that the Kumari has recently been allowed tutors although it is still said to be bad luck to marry a former goddess-incarnate.

They really are lovely.

After glimpsing the Kumari, we ducked into a shop that sold traditional thangkas. A thangka is a Tibetan Buddhist painting on cotton, or silk appliqué, usually depicting a Buddhist deity, scene, or mandala. I had no intention of buying one. The young woman in the store explained to me that the paintings in her store were done by monks, and therefore my purchase would support a monastery instead of unscrupulous artists. She brought up several different paintings with different levels of professionalism (evidently) and showed me how the gold flake sparked in the light. While she remained calm and collected as I agreed that they were all lovely and yet refused to buy one I became genuinely afraid that I would never be able to escape the shop. She showed me how they could be wrapped for travel and informed me that they never faded. She even brought out her own non-monk semi-professional paintings. She offered me a discount and asked me to name my own price. But I really didn't want a thangka! I'm not sure how offensive I was, but I finally stood up, said thank you, and left the building.

To atone for my thangka offense, knowing that my guide expected a tip, and not really wanting to eat alone, I took Mr D out for momos and coke. He wrote some Nepali phrases in my book, let me borrow his phone to call my friend, and told me that normally people gave him $20 or $30 for tours. Whaaat!? I gave him $10 which a Nepali later told me was still too much and went on my merry way.  This shakedown was the first of many such interactions.

That night, my friend Ambi met me at my hotel and took me back to her house, a slight adventure involving a crowded bus and crossing several streets. This may not seem very adventurous to you but then maybe you've never been to Kathmandu. We hung out with her kidlet and then had a typical dinner of rice with lentils, spinach, pickled carrots with a side of millet beer which seemed misguided. The kind of liquid that will kill you.

I was sad to miss Ambi's husband who had been in line all day for gas for the family motorbike. Nepal is going through a fuel crisis as all trucks from India are being stopped on the border. I'll write more on that later but it was shocking to think that the volume of vehicles on Kathmandu's roads (and the resultant air pollution) is normally double or triple what it was while I visited. Dipak did finally get home to give me a ride back to the hotel. On the way, we were stopped at a police checkpoint. Those are the moments in every tourists' life where they wonder what course of action will get them out of a situation with the police with the smallest bribe paid, "Should I pull my hood up further and keep my shades on and pretend I'm Nepali? Or should I flash my blonde hair and bat my baby blue eyes?" My friends later told me that it was a sobriety checkpoint so we had nothing to worry about but that the latter option would have worked well. Well now I know: be Western at police checkpoints, don't go into thangka shops if you don't want to buy one, momos are not an adequate tip, and stick to straight lines wherever possible.