without wiping the knife or scales the vendor turns to the next customer and the process begins again. The sight turns my stomach. From now on, it’s tofu. Sebastian totally grossed out goes about holding his hands over his mouth. Mal, on the other hand, is intrigued and makes cheeky comments about how delicious the eyes and testicles might be. Sebastian, even more repulsed now, starts to gag.
Keen to escape the reality of Nepali butchering, we turn a corner and plummet into the noise and activity of the central Asan Tole marketplace. Now well packed with morning shoppers, vendors call out, enticing us and others to come over and smell, try and buy their interesting culinary delights. Thankfully, there are no more butchers in this street and we amble past fresh produce stalls of long yellow beans, short knobbly green gourds and piles of orange root vegetables, past pots of steaming lentil curries, little pastry parcels called mo-mo’s and stacks of flat bread and pappadums. Spicy fragrance swirls around us, the sweet citrus scent of coriander clashing with fennel’s pungent aniseed, blending into the delicate aromas of cardamom, along with ginger, cloves and cinnamon. It’s delicious.
‘Hungry?’ Mal casts an inspecting eye over the food stall offerings.
‘Famished!’ I reply. Woken by the enticing fragrance of spices, my stomach gives a growl. Directly across from where I am standing is a huge pot of steaming mo-mo’s the scent wafts through the air and dances on the tip of my tongue.
‘I’m not eating that,’ announces Sebastian pointing at a grey lentil soup. ‘It looks like wash-up water.’
Food is momentarily forgotten when I spy flashes of bright material waving in the slight breeze. Across the square sits an Aladdin’s treasure of carpets, bolts of material and beautiful jewellery pieces spilling out of tiny cave-like shops. I am in shopping heaven but as I caress a brightly coloured bedspread, I’m told I’m not to buy anything until the end of our trip.
‘There’s too much stuff to carry already,’ declares Mal. I smile sadly, but in my mind wonder if I can devise a way to stuff something of this size into one of the bags.
Taxi horns pierce the air, bike and rickshaw bells compete with the ringing of awning bells. Beggars, sellers, touts and women dressed in delicate saris mingle amongst the fabulous colours, disgusting fumes and cacophony of sounds. Rubbish piles once swept into neat mounds are now scattered and cows saunter down the street at their own pace. Kathmandu is well and truly awake, and alive.
Breakfast becomes brunch with danish pastries at the Pumpernickel Bakery. Afterwards we decide to walk to the hilltop stupa that glittered so brilliantly in the dawning sunlight. Packing a day bag, I load up with camera gear, including the ever-important tripod, guidebook, spare-long-sleeve coverings, snacks, first-aid kit and extra bottles of water. It looks as if we’re about to head off on an expedition into the mountainous regions, instead of an amble up a hill to a religious monument.
Mal, however, is more interested in what is happening back home, or to be more precise, what is happening at work. While I pack he dashes down to reception and spends seventeen dollars on a five-minute phone call to find out from our mechanics that everything is fine and we haven’t gone broke in the past forty-eight hours. Nothing has changed since his last phone call from the airport in Singapore, except the cars they’re working on.
Back out in the crowded street, we retrace our steps past a now very bustling Chhetrapati Chowk. A major traffic jam is taking place; taxis, trucks, tempos and rickshaws have all come to a grinding halt as everyone wants right of way and no one is willing to give it. Pedestrians wander amongst the wedged vehicles, some ignoring the constant horn blowing, others casting dismissive waves towards the impatient drivers. Edging our way through the pandemonium we turn right towards the Vishnumati River. As we draw closer, the horrendous foul smell of raw sewage mixed with the dust and fumes of the city assaults our noses. For the second time that day – and it’s still only morning – my stomach churns and Sebastian expounds loudly his disgust. This time Mal joins in the feelings of nausea.
Once mighty, the Vishnumati is now a trickle. Near black in colour, it is awash with rotting vegetation, garbage and rubble. A herd of feral-looking pigs wallow near the edge and in the middle lies a dead cow, grotesquely bloated, its head stuck in the mud. On one side of the riverbank sit rows of multi-coloured, two and three-storey cement houses. Some have little paved patios with table and chairs facing the river, their private little piece of ‘waterfront realty’. On the other side sit large cement blocks, several with smoking piles – the funeral pyres.
Looking down the length of the river I notice through the smog haze numerous swing and plank bridges brimming with people coming and going; some carry loads on their heads, others wheeling bikes. Under the nearest bridge, a person walks along the riverbed, a sack over one shoulder. They stop occasionally, bend down, pick something out of the putrid flotsam and put it into the sack. As the figure comes closer, I see it’s a young boy dressed in torn brown pants and ripped jumper. He doesn’t look more than six.
We walk to the other side of the bridge and watch a man squatting in the river. He scoops water into a basin, swirls it around, and then picks something out of it, like panning for gold, although, I’m sure it’d be safe to say that wouldn’t be the type of heavy metal found in this river. On the embankment another garbage picker scrounges through piles of plastic and paper. Such filth and poverty is heartbreaking and I feel a sense of despair when I read to Mal and Sebastian that this polluted sewer of a waterway is an important river providing water for drinking, washing and religious ceremonies.
‘Amazing,’ I mumble softly, shaking my head in shock and disbelief. I imagine the river’s spirit fervently praying for rain, begging a cleansing monsoon to come quickly, to reinvigorate its life source. However, it will have to wait until June, three months away.
Walking up hill towards the stupa we pass simple brick homes and small chai teashops brimming with activity. The streets are filled with groups of children laughing and playing, but mostly stopping people and traffic by holding them hostage and demanding a ransom before being allowed to pass. The children hold a piece of string across the road and ‘capture’ a vehicle. Once stopped, its horn doesn’t though, the children surround it, bang on its bonnet and window and call, ‘Rupee, rupee, rupee.’
Most of the drivers hand over the rupees, although some just wave their arms and try to keep driving the car slowly through the throng of children. When a vikram-tempo driver refuses to give in to one group, the children chase the tiny three-wheel vehicle, jump onto its back bumper and bang the vinyl roof. The vehicle keeps going and they disappear from view.
Pedestrians are not exempt from the ransom demands. Anyone walking along the road is up for grabs. The children run around with the rope, tie up and trap the person, refusing any release until the rupee handover. Sebastian and I receive this treatment too.
‘No rupees,’ I say laughing, trying to untangle the rope. Mal also tries to untie us, pulling the rope over our heads to help us escape, almost strangling Sebastian in the process.
‘Rupee, rupee, rupee,’ they yell. ‘You give rupee now.’
‘No rupee,’ Mal says firmly. The children’s voices become louder. Bystanders and passers-by laugh at the spectacle, some even try to shoo the children away from us.
As we escape from one group another troupe of would-be captors pounce upon us. Having read it isn’t a good idea to give to begging children as it encourages the practice, we keep refusing their demands. Finally, in order to get some peace, we give in and hand over a couple of rupees. Unfortunately, handing coins to one chanting group is an open invitation to others. Trying to run encourages them to pursue us relentlessly.
Later,
