Musings on hanging out in Kathmandu

The valley is surrounded by hazy blue hills that in N.Ireland would most certainly be called mountains. Here they form the rim of the smog filled basin that holds the city of Kathmandu. Even in early morning the snowy mountains are still hidden behind a low lying layer of white clouds. By mid afternoon the blue of the sky is mostly erased by the gathering dark clouds that bring the downpour which signifies the monsoon is not done yet. The nauseating fumes of the manic Kathmandu traffic mingle to provide a healthy ride home. You can almost feel the carbon monoxide poisoning seeping into your body. Caught out in one of the afternoon downpours we decide to give up on the shopping and get a taxi home. After a short journey in a breaking down tuktuk (we are convinced he just didn’t want to go all the way to where we were going) we got into a taxi as the previously chugging tuktuk sped off. The taxi had a very wet back seat that left me with a very wet backside. Due to the many new one way systems in Kathmandu we went down through narrow back streets along roads with shops selling clothes, or vegetables, or meat with heads beside it (to prove what the meat is). The tarmac long since broken up we bumped our way along streets that had turned into rushing rivers as the failing city drainage was overloaded with an hours rain.

In the back of the three-wheeler tempo buses, the new gas or electric run form of public transport there are ten people squashed onto two bench seats. A pretty face with fuscia lipstick on looks out of the small window on the side and an elderly man in a Nepali topi (hat) holds his bag on his knee as he looks out the back door. Hanging out of the front is the young conductor calling out their destination to passersby who are all potential custom. He looks like he should really be at school. At the recently installed traffic lights a man on a motorbike talks on his mobile phone before the lights change. Further up the road the traffic is directed by a policeman in a blue uniform with orange waterproofs over the top and with white gloves. As he changes shifts with another policeman he hands over the all-important gloves and takes off the orange hood that he has tied over the top of his peaked uniform cap. The new man gets the sequencing wrong much to the frustration of the waiting motorcyclist who starts angrily beeping his horn.

Shops seem to crop up in areas. There are the usual little corner shops and quite a few more larger mini supermarkets than there used to be. Others come in groups. You know where to go when you want to buy beads, or shoes, or light fittings or cameras. The bulk of the nice craft shops seem to be on the Pulchowk hill near where we are living, though a few can always be found elsewhere. A new phenomenon since I was last here are flower shops. These are still few however and seem fairly well dispersed. There is a proliferation of food shops or wee restaurants which range from a hole in the wall selling a few snacks to some quite fancy places with every variety in between. No shortage of food to try and a plethora of shops with neatly stacked mounds of tempting Indian sweets.

In Thamel, the main tourist area, we sit and have a light lunch. My vegetable momos are delicious and a nice treat for someone who has become vegetarian since I last had meat momos aged 15 and really wants to savour some familiar tastes. The streets of Thamel are familiar and lined with shops that may or may not have changed hands over the past 11 years. Some shops seem expanded, others have different signs and some may have new things to sell. Essentially though there are restaurants, quality postcards, cheap and tempting clothes (which I have to mostly resist and which make me think of several friends back home), well stocked second hand bookshops, Tibetan carpets, bags, Indian imported crafts and shops which sell a mixture of everything. We wander with only the usual minimal hassle of a tourist area where you are the hope of a sale. In a season where tourism should be entering its highest numbers there are only a reasonable amount of foreigners around. The local politics of Maoist insurrection and a political vacuum and the regional politics of unrest in India and Pakistan have all contributed to the general flow of tourism redirecting elsewhere. Coming from Belfast a few small bombs aren’t enough to make you too nervous. There are small reminders of Belfast a number of years ago as our bags are checked entering a shopping centre. However there is no specific threat and foreigners are not targets. The political situation in the country is very sad though. Corruption reigns supreme and along with the violence is bringing the country to its knees.

People are on the whole as friendly as ever. Being able to talk in even very rusty Nepali is a plus. How nice it is not to just be an ignorant foreigner who only speaks English (as I will be on the rest of my travels). The men are dressed mostly in trousers and shirts, but the while some women still wear saris, many now wear kurtas (or Punjabi outfits). These are long tops / dresses over baggy trousers. They are colourful and look very attractive and range from plain cotton to some quite elaborate embroidery and fabrics. The long scarf they wear that hangs over their shoulders and down their backs gives it a touch of elegance. I myself am on the look out for a beautiful sari.