Carrying in Kathmandu

Always, there are things going from one place to the other, endlessly. In Nepal, we found that there were many creative means of transport, of the organic variety. How people would manage to carry the stuff that they carry is beyond me.

The traditional way of carrying in Nepal, a doko basket. (check out the calves on that guy)


used on construction sites.



Creative use of a bicycle


cases of cigarettes


sunset


Big bundle


yes, that's a refrigerator.


A cycle rickshaw full of goods, and in the foreground, milk jugs. Cycle powered transport

Who's that guy?


Bundle of clothes


Please, have a seat.

Baskets...

...pots and pans...

...and a portable Tupperware party.


Bigger than the car


Ladies carrying bundles of brooms, at Naradevi temple


In the wedding procession, he carries the holy items.


more construction supplies


house plants


Freight delivery


bags of rice


The Naradevi Transportation Union sits around and waits for the next job to come along.

Nepal Naps

The siesta is nit as important in Nepali culture as in some others, but folks will grab the opporunity for a nap wherever it presents itself. Here are a few photos of some of the naps that we witnessed in Nepal.


Napping in Traffic



...can I help you?


This tree is a very popular napping spot: more to follow

another rickshaw nap...

and another...


note the napping dogs

recognize that tree?


zzzzzz...


comfy??



there's that tree again



the temples of Kathmandu



....

At the Anjani "Hair Dresser Saloon for Ladies and Gents"

Men’s grooming is a revered daily ritual in Nepali Culture. Deb has observed that Nepali men are primped and preened until every single hair is in its place, and since she pointed it out to me, I have witnessed it myself. Just as in nature, the male of the species has the finest plumage, so the Nepalese men follow the natural order. Down around the corner at the Anjani Hair Dresser Saloon, one can get an experiential glimpse into this cultural ritual.

Every five days or so, when my face has grown bristly, Deb and I take a stroll down into the saloon, where the barbers greet us with great affection and affectation. They offer us a seat in their tiny 6 foot by 10 foot shop while they put the finishing touches on their previous clients, and we get the chance to observe real professionals at work. They wield their tools with great finesse and precision, clicking and clacking their scissors and comb just so. Their hands work with the practiced movements of artists, sculpting and preening their customers with utmost care and skill. It is truly a spectacle to behold, and a fine treatment to be subjected to.

I take my seat in the barber’s chair, and hand myself over. The barber begins by applying the first of many products, some sort of white lotion, and massages it into the face. The barber works like he is preparing a fine cut of meat for roasting, massaging it with spice, and tenderizing. Next he swabs the face clean with cotton, primes the beard with a bit of water. Then comes the lather. This part is very important. A little dab of shaving gel, and the shaving brush, and a Hindi film on the TV, and the guy works away for about five minutes or so, working up a lather, and then working it in, and then lathering some more, from this angle and that angle, all the time keeping track of the TV, and doing quite a thorough job of the lathering part. I think that might be a key to the success of the shave.

Eventually, he determines that the face is sufficiently prepared for the blade, and, with a blessing (evoking the god of shaving, I suppose) the shaving commences.

A fresh blade in the hands of this skilled craftsman can work wonders on a week’s hard beard growth. He performs his practiced order: first the sideburns, the cheeks, then the throat, then the underside of the chin, the square of the jaw, that little spot under the lower lip, each stroke followed by a flip of the blade over the back of the hand to gather the used lather. He stretches the skin taut between his fingers to catch all of the bristles, a clean shave the first time around. But that is certainly not the end of the treatment.

Barbers are talkative people, and they’re delighted to have a foreigner to work on and chat with in their own language. Barbershops are very social places, with people constantly coming and going (I should note that at this Saloon for Ladies & Gents, I certainly never saw a lady, apart from Deb). The barbers chatter away the whole time, asking me about why I came to Nepal, places I’ve seen, what my job is, who’s my favorite Hindi film star (?) etc., so I reply in kind, asking them about their job and training. They go to school for two years to learn their profession, though my barber assures me that nine months is enough to do a decent job (I don’t know who they practice on). After their training, they are subjected to exams (no written exam; only practical). Upon the successful completion of their exam, they are felicitated by the Barber’s Union of Nepal, and granted membership to the sacred brotherhood of Hair Cutters.

This is their ritual. Day in and day out, they cut hair. Every day, they perform this shaving ritual many, many times. It is a very involved ritual, and proceeds in a very particular fashion.

After the first shave is completed, another shave is performed to perfect the first. This is one of my favorite sensations of the shave; the application of shaving lather on a freshly shaven face feels like silk pajamas and satin sheets. Deee-Luxe.

Then come the products: first the dabs of the white lotion stuff, that gets massaged in, then the face is slapped with water, and the clear stone thing is rubbed on (stingy). This is followed by another white product from the little screw-top tub with a little bit of talcum powder, and then little dabs of the pink stuff that smells like mint. Another face massage, (we’re getting there…) and then the spray bottle of water comes out. The water is toweled off, and the shave is finished. But that, of course, is not the end of the treatment. Barbershops double as massage parlours, and part and parcel with the shave comes the head massage.

There’s this thing they do with their hands that is impossible to describe in words. It involves folding the hands a particular way, and then these repeated THWAKs on the head. Sounds unpleasant, but it’s not. It is a unique sensation indeed. Their strong rubber-band-like hands massage all of the tension out of the scalp, neck and forehead (they pull it out of the eyebrows). And my favorite guy would do this thing when I least expected it, where he would cradle my head and…CRRACKK goes the neck. Good Morning Folks! Hoo boy!

This is the treatment that one receives down at the Saloon. I have observed a man examining himself in the mirror for a full ten minutes after his shave. I can’t go in for that sort of vanity, but I know that the shave that I get in Kathmandu is well worth every one of the twenty-five rupees I pay for it (even if they do charge me five or ten rupees extra – foreigner price). The feeling of a fresh shave, cheeks as soft as a baby’s butt, can’t be beat.

Dancing in the Street

Walking the streets of Kathmandu is like a dance with so many partners – some days a graceful waltz; some days you get your feet stepped on. Dancing down the street, dodging and weaving with rickshaws, motorbikes, holy cow dung, raucous wedding processions, porters, hawkers, sadhus with flowers in their hair, packs of dogs, the whole flow of life dances with you.

Laundry at the Lodge

How to Do the Laundry

Strictement Interdit

Wash Cycle, Delicates (Deb)

Spin Cycle (Mark)

Rooftop Dryer

Laundry Day in Kathmandu

Dr. D. B. Roka, Ayurved.

Kathmandu is not so good for health. The streets are filled with cars and motorbikes, coughing out heavy fumes, unpaved streets raise so much dust that sometimes at night it becomes like a fog. The rivers run thick with waste, and little tiny creatures swim in the tap water, awaiting a healthy host.

Last time we were in India, one such little creature caught a ride in Deborah's lower intestine, hunkered down and started a family. We didn't know his name until recently, when he was introduced to us as Mr. Giardia Lambia. Deborah is not happy with her tenant, and she aims to evict him.

With such aim in mind, we visited Naradevi. Naradevi is a little neighborhood in Kathmandu that is known for its Ayurvedic Medical College and hospital. Along the street next to the hospital have sprung up numerous small pharmacies, specializing in both Ayurvedic and Allopathic medical treatment. After asking around a little bit, we went to Makalu Ayurvedic Pharma, and scheduled a consultation with Dr. D.B. Roka, B.A.M.S. (Lko, India) M.D. (BHU, India), Kayachikitsa (Internal Medicine).

The doctor’s office was in back of the pharmacy, through a humid dank and stinky dungeon (watch your head) and up a tiny staircase. The smiling doctor welcomed us into his tiny office, and gave Deborah an examination (I decided not to tell Deb about the good-sized rat that scurried across the floor during her exam). In his peculiar broken English, he asked Deb about symptoms, and suggested that we pursue a lab test. So Deb produced a specimen and carried it to the tiny little patho lab across the street, where we paid the 40 rupee fee ($0.56), and a half hour later, we were provided with a result, which we brought back to Dr Roka. After some deliberation, he wrote his prescriptions in messy hindi script (seems that some things are universal).

Then downstairs to the Pharma, the affable gentleman shopkeeper dutifully mixed our prescription up in the mortar and pestle. Deb was given instructions to take this one twice daily after food, and that one five minutes later, this one for 6 days, and that one for a month. The shopkeeper then wrote us a bill for 1131 rupees (mind you, that includes the doctor’s fee of NRs 200 ($2.81)), and we went on our merry healthy way.

We’ll be checking back with the Doctor before we go. After all, what’s another 200 rupees in life?

Ram Mandir Sangeet

The imposing presence of the Bihari Khayal singer on stage at the Ram Mandir was enough to portend a fine performance. Our expectations were exceeded. His resonant voice flew and fragmented into manifold colors, like light refracted by a diamond. It was like a sound not of this world; from where, I don’t know.

The King's Motorcade

An ocean of people surge like a tidal force, and we dive in. At Pashupatinath, a quarter million people have converged for Shivaratri, the night of Shiva, and we are among them. People have come from all over the Kathmandu Valley to pay homage to Shiva at one of the most important Shiva temples on the Indian Subcontinent, and Sadhus (wandering ascetic holy men) have made pilgrimage from all over to worship Shiva and take their Prasad, Ganja, the Breath of Shiva.


People are packed into the narrow streets between the buildings. Every street that we try, people seem to be blocking the way, welled up like a dammed river. Once again, we go down a street and find it blocked, so we push our way into the crowd. We are overwhelmed, and we find ourselves lost into the hot heaving throng. We are three people together, Deborah, Jiwan and Mark, and we would like to remain that way, so we grip each other’s hands like a lifeline.

In a crowd like this, people lose their autonomy, subjugated to the will of the herd. The force of the movement is overpowering, and repeatedly I found myself pushed, lifted, off-balance, feet barely touching the ground. Initially I fought the force, gritting my teeth, and it was painful and difficult. I seemed to get pushed, elbowed and kicked from every direction. Finally, I found it easier to relax into the undulations of the crowd, following the flow, and it became calming, like a sigh, and time seemed to disappear. We floated downstream in the swirls and eddies of the turbulent current.

Abruptly, we crash into a wall of blue-suited officers with sticks and rifles, the dam holding back the force of the surge, a crush of men on men. The feeling changed instantly from security to hazard. The sudden hardness posed a threat of injury.

Fortunately, one of the officers in the line spotted Deborah, one of the only women in the crushing crowd, and a foreigner at that, and he signaled to her to break through the line. Jiwan and I were attached, so we followed, and we were delivered again to safety.

Once free from the crush, we were able to gain our bearings, and the police who were not on the front lines chatted amicably with us, as Nepalis are wont to do. Upon questioning the reason for the barricade, we found out that the king was coming. He had come to do Puja, to give worship to Shiva, and his motorcade would be coming through any minute. We were trapped between the crowd and the King, in the stifling dusty street.

We stood by the sidelines and chatted with the police for half an hour. The crowd was quite a spectacle, and the crowd control likewise. We would be standing on clear pavement and, over the course of some minutes, the crowd would slowly surround us, and we would once again be in its midst. Then, at some hidden signal, the police would charge the crowd back with their sticks, as we clung to a fence, and we would once again find ourselves in safety. We were given preferential treatment as foreigners, as guests, and we were grateful for it. Besides, the police took a liking to me, a foreigner who spoke Nepali and dressed like a Nepali, “Nepali justi” - just like Nepali!

At a lull in the action, we decided to make a break for it, to escape from our trap. Jiwan asked a police officer whether there was any way out, and nobody seemed to know. There was a side street, and we decided to try and make a run up the street away from the crowd, and go home. As we scooted around the corner, a huge crowd bore down on us, people stacked on top of each other, and we realized that the trap was complete. Here we were, and here we were to stay. We found ourselves at the heart of the activity, with crowds on all sides, police and authority figures coming and going, and two police horses which would occasionally make spinning kicks to clear away gathering crowds.


Finally, after an eternity, in a flurry of flashing red lights, from the main gate came motorcycles and blue trucks brimming with armed soldiers. The crowd hummed with tension. A swarm of dignitaries approached, carrying briefcases, wearing Nepali suits, and then…the king walked by.

We were enveloped in the choking fumes and dust of the motorcade, and crushed once again by the crowd, and after some minutes, we were taken up in the outflowing current of the masses. We were deposited onto the free streets, where we made our way home, exhausted, grimy and euphoric.